


Sleep of the Dead

by snowkatze



Series: The Witcher - Fairy Tale Inspired [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Banter, Fairy Tale Curses, Fairy Tale Elements, First Kiss, Getting Together, Ghost Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Kidnapping, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Or Is he?, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Sleeping Beauty Elements, Some Humor, hmm i'm smelling true love's kiss in the air
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:28:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27359554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowkatze/pseuds/snowkatze
Summary: Jaskier thinks he hit rock bottom when Geralt flushed twenty years of friendship down the drain, but then he finds himself suddenly translucent and rudely walked through by a traveller. Apparently he's dead - that's certainly a new low. He needs to find out what happened, and who better to help him than the man who's made more than clear he wants nothing to do with him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: The Witcher - Fairy Tale Inspired [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1998124
Comments: 212
Kudos: 803





	1. Chapter 1

Jaskier is reasonably certain that he is dead. The evidence is staggering: He’s got a killer headache, like from the worst kind of hangover. He’s tired and sleep of the dead sounds very appealing right now. And on top of that, a man just walked through him. So that can’t be good. And he is cold the way people get when nothing is touching them except for freezing air.

(He thought it would feel like relief. He had expected it to be a gorgeous, final, end-of-the-road sort of ending. But it’s only more – more pain, more emptiness, heavier limbs. Relief is further than a daydream away.)

How did this happen? All he remembers is going to sleep and then waking up in the forest. Only he didn’t wake up the way humans do. He blinked and then he was here, on his feet, amidst the tall-standing trees of the forest. He – appeared. Like by teleport. He would suspect it was some prank by a mage who (probably rightfully) has it out for him if it weren’t for being half translucent.

“Fucking great,” Jaskier roars at the vast forest, trying to make his voice big enough to fill the space so it can reach whatever deity is listening. “Yes, thank you! What more could we do to Jaskier after we fucked up his life and turned everything to horseshit? Oh, yes, I have the idea. Why don’t we just take it from him? He can’t have a bad life if he doesn’t have a life at all, is that what you were thinking? Hire another solution-maker, you bastards!”

So. So. So, so, so. All he needs to do is keep his cool, which should be easy, considering he’s bloody freezing. Step one after dying: Figure out your where-abouts. Should be useful to know whether he’s about to be ripped to shreds by hellhounds or worse (like running into that nincompoop from court who thought he could actually play the hurdy-gurdy better than Jaskier and died from slipping in the stables a month later).

Taking stock: Trees. Lots and lots of trees. How to categorize those? Trees more a sign of a friendly atmosphere or eternal damnation? Or are these the naughty trees, sent to be punished in the afterlife? (Can a tree commit a sin? Splurged on sunlight, now off to hell with the greedy thing?) He’ll mark it off as a _maybe_. What else? He’s standing on a path, which is where that rude wanderer just walked straight through him without even so much as an apology. Next to the path, a horse – woohoo, a clear score for eternal damnation. (What do you think is holding them upright? Their frail spindly legs? No! It’s undeniably the power of Satan.) And – might that lump by the road be a person? Jaskier steps a little closer, leaning over the lump.

Ah. Who else could it be but Geralt of Rivia, the Butcher of Blaviken and Jaskier’s fragile heart himself? There was never any question he would be in Jaskier’s afterlife. But which is it? Exquisite hell or torturous paradise? Right now, Geralt is sleeping, so it could be either option.

(Do you wish your last words to me had been different?)

Jaskier steps around Geralt and focuses on the horse.

“Roach!” he coos. “Oh, I’ve missed you. Sorry for what I just thought about horses. I meant it as a compliment, I swear! My mischievous lady.”

He lifts his hand to pet her head, but his hand glides right through her.

(You are careful with your wishes now.)

And she meekly turns her head, takes no note of him, as if he weren’t here at all. And he isn’t, is he? Maybe this is no illusion, no magic, no unknown adventure. Maybe this is the real Roach and the real Geralt and Jaskier is where he is not wanted once more. Forced to spend forever running after Geralt while he’s invisible to the Witcher. Ha! And Jaskier had thought the afterlife was supposed to be different.

(Those rare moments when you let me touch you, when I could find an adequate excuse.)

He stumbles and leans against the tree next to Geralt’s sleeping body, but he falls right through it. The ground can still hold him, but nothing else. He lets his heavy eyelids drop. Legs stuck in a tree. It’s all just a bad dream.

(Does a song still taste so sweet without the lute and with no ears but his own to hear it?)

Nothing has a presence. You can always tell when it’s close by. Years ago, Jaskier was stupid and starry-eyed. He thought he owned the world, he thought he had the future to fall for. At some point, all that hope and optimism had to make room for… nothing. When he starts to listen and stops believing, his chest hollows out.

(This is just the final step, yes? This is where he was headed. No sense in regrets.)

This is what Geralt always thought of him and his songs, all talk and no substance. Har, har, Geralt, bad bloody joke. He is no substance now, only cold air. Once Geralt wakes up, it will hurt so much more. Jaskier lets out a laboured breath that brings no relief. He liked being alive, he thinks. Even when he hated it.

(Marmalade sandwiches. Gosh, he will miss marmalade sandwiches.)

He can’t feel the ground beneath his back, but panic still readily comes to him. The tears don’t. Dreadfully sorry, no tears available at the moment. Why don’t you ask again in an eternity?

Jaskier stands up again and paces the floor around Geralt. Oh, nobody, I’m sorry, did I step on your feet? No one, may I ask for this dance? Here, have a glass of nothing. This is terrible. Jaskier won’t have anyone to talk to. He doesn’t know any ghosts, he doesn’t know the most popular ghost-social-spots, he doesn’t know ghost-etiquette. Although he could always talk to Geralt. This time, there will be no complaints. And Geralt’s responses have always been a rare commodity.

But the terrifying truth is, Jaskier has only himself for company now. No one to sigh at his antics, no one to suppress a laugh at one of his jokes. And he wants – yes, despite the tiredness weighing him down, he still wants. If he is still here, in a world he doesn’t belong in anymore, if the desperate longing is somehow strong enough to keep him here, then he won’t get to rest.

What a sensible man would do: accept it’s over. Accept his chances are up. Put those silly wants and needs into a clean box – place them there like something precious. And then _bury them_ as deep as he can.

Jaskier has not, by any stretch of the imagination, ever been a sensible man.

He lies down next to Geralt, like in a dream, one of the good ones, and thinks about words.

He doesn’t have matter, but no matter, he doesn’t matter.

He lies and thinks about words that have content. Even nothing has meaning. But the word "Jaskier" does not anymore. He is just – gone.

is dead air now. Literally dead. A spot of nothing.

thinks about spirits. Don’t lose your spirit. (Don’t be one.)

is as tangible as the songs carried over the lands.

A hole in the world.

A blank.

When wants, wants everything. wants too much. Of course, turns up empty, the way the greedy do, with their slippery hands.

The leaves rustle, and say: You have lost your grip. We have seen many fall. You are no different, helpless, unbalanced, immobilized. A nestless child.

The wild wind whispers: You are alone.

Lying in a dreamish nightmare, watches as the moon moves across the cloudy sky.

But the tiredness doesn’t leave. It clings to like oil, hanging at every strand of hair, gathering in the eye sockets. It does not wash off. Tiredness, paradoxically, does not get tired.

And is tired of wondering. And is tired of regret.

When sleep will not come and stays away, turns on side and watches Geralt. At least has this. There were times when thought would never see Geralt again. But here he is. Still the same way he looked all those years ago when first became intrigued by him. Beautiful white hair, beautiful features, but tense lines on his forehead, even in his sleep. He is not restful either.

Finally, finally, after hours or minutes he rouses. gets up, elated.

“Rise and shine, Geralt! Don’t sleep your life away. Take it from me,” says lightly, and only because knows Geralt can’t hear. But Geralt jerks and rolls away in an instant, making a grab for his sword.

“Wait, can you see me?” asks.

It’s impossible. The man on the road couldn’t. Surely a random peasant won’t be so unfazed by the appearance of a ghost that he just casually strolls through .

“I can,” Geralt says. “And you know what that means?”

The word "Jaskier" still means something to someone.

“Maybe I’m not quite as dead as previously estimated?”

“It means I’ll know where to aim.”  
He presses the sword closer.

“Woah, woah,” Jaskier holds up his hands in a placating gesture. “Calm down. I know we didn’t part on the best of terms, but surely this is not necessary.”

“You’re not Jaskier.”

“Wha- why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because Jaskier isn’t dead. He wouldn’t dare. He knows I wouldn’t let him touch Roach _for weeks_ if he died on me. You’re a doppler. An imposter. Something.”

Jaskier’s teeth gnash together. He is dead, all out of the blue. He didn’t expect this. He didn’t plan for this. He certainly didn’t choose to show up next to Geralt’s sleeping body. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say he’s had a really bad fucking day.

“Go on then!” Jaskier is seething. “Put your sword through me. The only thing you’ll hurt is my feelings.”

Geralt hesitates. How courteous indeed, at least to hesitate before impaling his only friend with a sword. Or. Well. His “we’re not friends”. His “if life could give me one blessing”. His never-friend.

“So prove it,” Geralt says.

“What do you want me to say? What haven’t I put into a song that half the country has heard?”

He was proud of those songs once. Now they’re only painful reminders.

“What was the last thing I said to you?”  
“Really? That’s what you’re going with? Out of all things you could ask me?”

Geralt’s face twists again, in an agonizingly familiar way. He lowers his sword, but keeps it in his hand.

“Dammit, Jaskier.”  
“Oh, yes, that’s what you started with. You want me to give you the whole speech? Because, believe me, I have it memorized word for word.”

Geralt looks conflicted, confused, but also like he is trying desperately to hide everything away again. He takes one step toward Jaskier, and Jaskier twitches, not sure if he wants to step backwards or forwards, so he just stays.

“It’s not the sort of thing you forget.” Jaskier shrugs. “There are very, very few things that could have ever made me even look at you again,” he lies, and spreads out his arms. “It’s your lucky day.”

Geralt is still looking at him like he’s seeing a ghost – oops. Jaskier keeps forgetting.

“But you can’t be,” Geralt says, completely stiff. “That would mean that Jaskier –“

He reaches out to grab Jaskier’s wrist, but his hand glides right through it.

“No. No, you’re not him,” Geralt is nearly shouting now. He is clenching his jaw and has to turn around. He has so much presence in the world. He would leave craters, if he were ever gone. Whole cliffs.

Jaskier gives Geralt one more glance. It’s not like he really expected anything. He’s not Geralt’s problem anymore. Jaskier only really stayed because he thought Geralt would never know.

“How about the last words I said to you, then?” Jaskier says, because he knows when he is defeated. Even when it takes him twenty years to realize. “See you around, Geralt.”

He turns around and doesn’t know where to go and goes anyway. It’s colder now. There is no body to drag around, but Jaskier feels heavy. He is walking down a mountain. He can hear something shuffling in the bushes. He is alone and he can never learn from his mistakes because he is addicted to this one, even though it leaves him bleeding every time.

With every step, he feels himself fading a little more. It would take so little to just –  
“Wait!”

He should keep walking, but disaster smells so sweet.

Geralt is standing in the same spot, like he is frozen, but Jaskier comes back to him.

“What happened to you?” Geralt asks.

“Ah, I was just, you know, enjoying the afterlife and then I thought to myself, I’m gonna fucking haunt your ass.”

Geralt looks so unhappy and somehow, Jaskier regrets waiting for him to wake up even more now.

“I’ve known my share of vengeful spirits,” Geralt says warily.

“Melitele, Geralt, I was kidding. You’re so self-absorbed.” Kind words have grown tired, don’t find their way onto Jaskier’s lips any longer and sleep at the bottom of his stomach instead. “I know this is the last thing you want, but I need a favour.”

And he doesn’t mention that Geralt is possibly the only person who can see him and he doesn’t want to be alone.

Doesn’t mention he has dreamed of Geralt every night and thought of him every day.

Doesn’t mention he would do it all again, even with the heart ache. (He knew what he was signing up for from the start.)

“What do you want?” Geralt presses out.

Jaskier doesn’t want to be just another person who takes from Geralt, who doesn’t know how to stop giving. But he is not asking for protection or shelter or food. He is only a shadow now, in the corner of Geralt’s eye. And he doesn’t know what else to do.

“I want to know how I died. And why.”

Just let me keep you, he does not say. Just for a little bit.

Geralt sheathes his sword. “What do you remember?”

“I was headed home, I think. Maybe.”  
Jaskier watches Geralt’s face carefully, trying to analyse his expressions, but not quite daring to come to a definitive conclusion, seeing how badly he misread the room – or, well, the open mountain plane - the last time.

He decides to skip the reaction.

“So? Come on. Avenge me or something.”

“Really?”  
“It’s the least you could do. After what you said to me.”

Geralt grumbles, but he starts to pick up his bags, which Jaskier takes to assume they’re going. Which is good. Geralt will know what to do. Once they know more - (Once Geralt doesn’t feel guilty any longer -)

Roach neighs softly, and even though she might not be able to see him, Jaskier walks toward her, intending to say something.

“Get away from Roach,” Geralt calls immediately, although Jaskier was reasonably sure he hadn’t even been looking in their direction.

Jaskier starts pouting.

“You know what you did,” Geralt says.

“Can’t touch her anyway.”

Jaskier lifts his hands and backs away.

They start walking then, the Witcher and Viscount de Can’t-take-a-hint. Side by side. And it’s almost like it used to be. And it’s almost perfect – if he had a lute, if Geralt weren’t so unnaturally tense next to him, if it weren’t for the overwhelming tiredness seated deep in his bones. But all anyone would see is a lone Witcher wandering by himself. (And it’s true - Jaskier has long since been written out of that story.)

( ~~When a humble bard~~

~~graced a ride along with~~

Geralt of Rivia)  
  


* * *

Geralt can’t look. Looking makes real. The sound is bad enough, but can be written off as a memory, an earworm, a voice in a deranged head.  
(Impossible to touch what he so often flinched away from.)  
(Impossible to hold what has always flown and flickered.)

(All those sweet, tender things Geralt never wanted.)

Jaskier is safe. Jaskier is somewhere. Jaskier has a pulse and a breath and a fluttering heartbeat.

It’s just him and Roach and a faint hallucination to keep him company. Anything else. Any other option. There are no other options.

(So much to miss when you almost have it.)

(Such a distantly warm feeling in his chest where he was once happy.)

(His worst mistake cuts deeper now.)

Jaskier is at the coast. He is playing in taverns. He is safe from Geralt. Safe.

Geralt is doing what he does. He gets scowled at in the streets. He takes a room.

Lies in a lonely bed.

Safe. Warm. Breathing.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to sleep _again_. It’s simply rude at this point. After all, it’s not like I can join you.”  
Closes his eyes, all by himself.

“Have you never heard of ‘no rest for the wicked’?”

Safe. Warm. Breathing.

“So how is the mourning going? Maybe you should start wearing black. Oh, _wait_.”

Sleep makes it go away, for a little bit. Guilt he doesn’t know how not to feel. Regret, his most cherished companion. His… (safe.)

(He must be.)

Waking to a nightmare. Geralt does what he does. He sharpens his sword.

“Am I just supposed to sit here and watch you make the same hand motion over and over? Not gonna lie, I’m a little starved for entertainment here in ghost-land.”

Geralt lays a book open on the table, for no particular reason at all. At random times, he turns the page.

(Still whole.)

(He must be.)

A monster to hunt, that’s what he does.

“Oh my, _finally_ I can see one of your hunts from the premium seat.”

Geralt talks to himself sometimes.

“It’s a hunt, not a performance.”

“You really haven’t seen yourself, have you?”

A group of rotfiends. Looking dead, rotten flesh hanging off their bodies. Necrophage oil coats Geralt’s sword.

“Geralt! Watch out!”

He twirls around, takes off the head of one that was about to lurch at him. Geralt keeps moving, slicing his way through more, but they get up again, stubbornly hard to kill.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.”

A shriek, the rotfiend is about to miss him, but right behind him is… Geralt twists his body, ensures the rotfiend doesn’t miss. It manages to scratch his chest before he kills it too.

“Why, by the Gods, did you do that?”

Only one left now. He kills that one too. Does what he does.

“How is your furniture doing? Because I suspect very strongly that you have got more than one screw loose.”

He wipes the blood and oil off his sword and sheathes it.

“Are you a squirrel? No? Then how come you are behaving like such a nutter?”

Geralt starts walking, grits his teeth. He’ll have to tend to the wounds back at the tavern.

“I’m dead! I’m literally dead, gone, pushing daisies, bit the dust. It’s a little late for the sacrifice game, understood?”

He arrives alone, with a rotfiend head for proof. Gets disgusted looks in the tavern.

“What were you even thinking? Melitele forbid Jaskier gets stumbled through by a rotfiend? How will I ever live with myself knowing I let a rotfiend unknowingly touch the same air as my deceased friend? What is _wrong_ with you?”

“I’ve done what you asked,” Geralt says.

The man who hired Geralt slides over a bag of coin. Geralt doesn’t count.

Safe. Warm. Breathing. Somewhere far away from monsters and witchers and a life not suited to humans who are far too fragile, who have lives far too short…

(He has never known a vengeful spirit like…)

On his own, he goes to his room. There is no one to tend to his wounds but himself.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s clear as anything Geralt doesn’t want him here. He doesn’t even look at Jaskier and barely acknowledges his presence. But Jaskier can’t leave, even knowing he’s overstayed his welcome by days, months, years perhaps.

But it’s not all bad. Sometimes it gets so close to what Jaskier really wants that he can feel his heart breaking.

In the tavern, an amateur bard – if he is even worthy of the title – is butchering one of Jaskier’s songs. He yells over the music in Geralt’s ear as he’s nursing a drink.  
“You call that an A sharp? To me it sounds more like a D minus. Booh!”

Geralt seems to be smirking, so Jaskier is happy to continue.

“B flat? Oh, no, it sounded very, very bumpy.”

Prowling around the stage like he owns the place, the halfwit. Then – Jaskier lets out a loud gasp. “This goes to far! The line is ‘kissed her sea shell’, not ‘kissed her lips’. He’s messed up the rhyme scheme! Not to mention the complicated underlying symbolism. Geralt! I give you permission to take your sword and -”

“How many times do I have to say this? I’m not going to kill anyone for you.”

“What about light stabbing?”  
“This is not a negotiation.”

Jaskier gestures wildly with his arms.

“But you heard him! He’s terrible, playing _my_ song. Don’t you agree?”

“Didn’t sound any different to me.”  
“Didn’t – uhm – what?!” Jaskier is nearly flailing now. “I’m dead, the least you could do is pay some respects!”

Geralt, very rudely, does not pay any respects and smirks into his drink instead.

* * *

An elegant lute with intricate carvings is propped up against one of the market stalls.

“Geralt, are you seeing what I’m seeing?”

Sometimes, the tiredness fades to a dull throb behind Jaskier’s eyelids. No matter how he feels, Jaskier pretends everything is fine, so Geralt won’t worry. (Not that Geralt would ever even look at him.)

“An overcrowded market filled with thieves and swindlers?” Geralt answers, so low that bystanders can’t hear him talking to the air.

“I’m seeing the afterlife worthy of the greatest troubadour on the continent! A lute that must have been crafted in heaven.”

“Good luck trying to pick it up.”

Huh. That does put a damper on it. None the matter. Jaskier is switching strategies.

“I might not be able to pick it up, but you know who has two fully functioning hands and a soft spot for bards not currently in the possession of useful things like money or a real body?”

“Hope you find him before the market closes.”

Jaskier turns around, definitely not pouting, and watches a woman trip over her dress in the middle of the market.

“Honestly,” he huffs. The woman grabs a tablecloth to drag herself up again, but instead all the fruits on the table come crashing down. “What has to happen for you to do something nice for me? Hell freezes over? It rains tiny horses?” Jaskier turns back around. “Why do you always -”  
Geralt is, as was to be expected, not listening. However, he is, as was certainly not to be expected, already over at the stall with the lute talking to the vendor.

Jaskier is innocuously smiling when Geralt straps the lute to Roach’s back.

“Shut up,” Geralt says.

Jaskier smiles more widely.

* * *

Ghosts can’t do much, Jaskier finds. They mostly – are. He used to love being. It was one of his favourite activities. But now… Ghosts can’t play the lute, which Geralt thankfully doesn’t mention, even as he drags the lute across the country. Maybe they are both living in fantasy land, where hope grows on trees.

And ghosts can’t sleep. And Jaskier is just so, so…

“Gods! Do you see this flower? This might be the prettiest flower I have seen in my entire life – oops, went a little too far there in the sentence. Let’s just say it’s the prettiest flower I have ever seen.”

It’s sitting right next to the path, radiating beauty and positive feelings. Geralt is staring straight ahead, not sparing it a glance.

“And can you guess whose hair it would look awfully pretty in?” Jaskier says.

Geralt’s eyebrows go up.

“Roach’s, obviously,” Jaskier says cheerfully. “Why, what did you think?”

Geralt huffs. It really is like talking to an air vent sometimes.

“Come on. I know only one opinion counts for you and I’m sure Roach would love it. Am I right, Roach?”

Roach, quite obviously in answer to his question, lifts her head a little. So Geralt, the big softie, picks the flower and puts it behind Roach’s ear, turning her effectively into the most beautiful horse in the country.

(And Jaskier wishes so much he could have this. Could touch Roach’s mane. Could feel the wind rolling through the trees. Could put his arm around Geralt’s shoulder.)  
(He slumps, letting a form sag he doesn’t even have.)

(Is this punishment, he wonders. Being able to close his eyes, but never to rest. Being allowed to see, but not touch. Having to watch the world turn on without him.)

Geralt walks a few steps ahead while Jaskier picks up a tune. At least he can still sing. Even if he’s missing the appreciative audience.  
(Is this what he is supposed to see? Geralt getting on without him, so Jaskier finally sees Geralt doesn’t need him, _the world_ doesn’t need him, that he can let go? If that was the case, they really shouldn’t have let him hear that imposter of a bard play his song.)

* * *

“You know what the absolute worst part of this is? I can’t change my outfit. I died in my least favourite doublet. Fuck me, am I right?”

Geralt is by himself in the forest, listening only to the fire crackling in front of him.

“Not actually, I guess. None of that will be happening any time soon, I suspect, seeing that I’m dead.”

It’s not cold, exactly, not to a witcher, but he draws his jacket closer.

“Why am I wearing my least favourite doublet? Shouldn’t my spiritual form be a representation of my glorious self? I want a golden jacket. Maybe a bit of glitter, some sparkles.”  
“Could stand in the fire. Plenty of sparkles,” Geralt says unprompted.

He allows his eyes to slide over, just a tad to the right. The firelight doesn’t hit Jaskier. He looks barely there. He looks like he will fade out any minute.

He’s just a nightmare, nothing more.

Looking is an indulgence and torture at the same time. Hugging the knife, loving the taste of poison. Fluffed up hair, a fine looking doublet, he is sitting by the fire like a breathing man. He is different, more quiet, more wary, but so undeniably _Jaskier_.

This is just a mountain fantasy. The universe is cruel, that’s true, but not like this. This goes too far.

(You killed him on the mountain. You gave him the push.)

Geralt looks back to the fire. Is alone. By himself. Just him and Roach. Jaskier is far, far away and warm and breathing and alive alive _alive_

“Oh, Geralt” – there is nothing – “why must you” – only a shadow voice – “be so -”  
Geralt closes his eyes. There is only the wind.

“Wait, what’s that? I think – oh, fuck, Geralt -”

Geralt jerks, hears a noise from behind – is about to grab his sword – but something hits the back of his head and suddenly everything

* * *

It’s not unusual for Geralt to wake up in chains. This time, his prison is moving. His head is throbbing, but it won’t last long. Geralt slowly blinks his eyes open. He’s in the back of a carriage. Road’s bumpy. It’s hard to make out shapes at first, but Geralt looks around frantically – oh, thank goodness, there is –

No one. He is alone.

“You’re awake! That’s a relief. I was scared out of my mind.”

Geralt, for no particular reason at all, smiles a little.

“I didn’t see anyone coming but suddenly there was this shadow and I was like woah, but it was already too late and I barely made it behind you into the carriage. But now that you’re awake, it’s all good. Let’s escape!”

Geralt tugs at his chains, but they are tight around his wrists. Whoever locked him up did a good job.

“Too bad neither of us can walk through walls,” Geralt says.

“I’m not leaving you, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

“I’m suggesting you do some recon.”  
The least the hallucination can do is make itself useful, since it’s living in Geralt’s mind rent-free.

“I’m not walking through the walls,” the hallucination says stubbornly.

“Why not?”  
“It’s weird. It’s… unsanitary.”

“I think hygiene is the least of your problems.”

Jaskier starts pacing the small space, though he can only go two steps before he has to turn around. The only light comes in from the gridded window behind him.

“The point is, I’m not doing it. It’s scary. Walking past instead of through walls is a hard habit to rid yourself of.”

“Fine. Then we’ll just wait it out and let my kidnappers get on with whatever nefarious plans they have for me.”

“Don’t you have a plan? You’re a witcher, you can come up with something.”  
“I do have a plan.”

Geralt stares at Jaskier intently. Jaskier throws up his arms in exasperation.

“Well, what would you do if your friend _hadn’t_ conveniently been turned into a ghost for you?”

“Enjoy the imprisonment until an unlikely escape or very likely torture with adjacent death.”

Jaskier finally sighs loudly.

“Okay, okay, but just so you know –“

“If you feel vaguely uncomfortable walking through wood for a brief moment, it’s my fault?”

“That’s right.”

They wait until, a while later, the carriage comes to a stop.

Jaskier cracks his neck, as if preparing for a fight, and then hesitantly steps toward the carriage wall. In an instant, he’s disappeared.

And Geralt –

(The room seems suddenly much smaller, the air colder. He hears nothing. Inexplicably, his stomach is churning.)

Geralt is alone.

* * *

“Do recon, he says. Use your special ghost powers to save me, he says,” Jaskier grumbles. “Does that brute have any idea -”  
Jaskier, not looking where he was going, had accidentally walked through a man in a robe. He suppresses a sigh. That robe just screams fashion-ignorant mage. Geralt will not be happy.

He can spot three carriages in total. Judging by the heavy locks and bars in front of the small window, one of them only for the purpose of keeping a prisoner. Interesting. Had they always planned on kidnapping Geralt or was kidnapping in general just such a frequent activity for them that they had to come prepared? Like, hm, better take our prison chamber along, who knows what kind of non-suspecting witcher we’ll run into? How awfully sensible of them.

Now, what about the entourage? There are quite a few people on horses, many heavily armoured, some dressed like the snobs from court. One of them is standing in front of Geralt’s carriage, all glum, and taking his job very seriously, as though he is expecting Geralt to tear apart his chains and smash through the door any second. Robe-guy is also keeping an eye on the carriage, which can’t be good.

And who’s at the top of this chain of peacocks and bulls? Jaskier can only see him from behind, the doublet that’s way over the top, the feathery hat, chest puffed out.

Next to him, a woman is talking to him, turned sideways. She looks oddly familiar, but Jaskier can’t place it.

He tries to take a peak at the flag the riders are carrying, but the angle is bad and he can only make out some rose colours.

“What on earth is he thinking?” someone shouts right next to Jaskier’s head. He stumbles back, his head whipping around.

Just two run-of-the-mill soldiers chatting, it seems. But the horse they are feeding looks rather familiar.  
“Not so loud,” the smaller guy answers.

Uuuh, gossip. Jaskier is all ears.

“He’s out of his mind to bring a –“ the taller one continues.  
“Will you _shut up_? He just wants to make use of his assets. And you heard what happened to the other guy.”

“That’s no reason to fraternize with the bloody Butcher of Blaviken.”

Ah, gossiping about Geralt. That’s not so great.

“And now we’re being forced to take care of his damn horse -”  
“ _Paid_ , we’re being paid to -”

“Fuck off. Like he’s fucking royalty, we’re feeding his horse carrots. I don’t even have a horse.”

Jaskier can feel anger bubble up in him, but he only clenches his fist. In another lifetime, he would have given these people a piece of mind, one so big they would choke on it. But a gush of wind cannot sway someone’s opinion, much less knock them over the head with a stolen lance-thingy.

“What’s that you’ve been riding on all this time?” Mr. Small says and snickers. “An armadillo?”

“A what? No, that horse is a loan from the boss. It’s his horse.”  
There’s a small moment of despondent silence.

“I want a horse,” Mr. Tall says quietly.

Roach, ever the good horse, snaps her teeth in his direction.

“The witcher’s a monster. He stinks. He can’t love, everyone knows that, and he’s made to be violent – you know what he did in Blaviken. And to top it all off,” he raises his voice, becoming agitated, “he didn’t teach his horse any bloody manners.”

Years long Jaskier spent singing to anyone who would listen (or at any rate looked like they wouldn’t throw tomatoes at him until he got at least two songs out) what a great pal Geralt is, _no, listen, he’s really great, you should see him once he’s taken a bath_. And _still_ , there’s people like these. Jaskier grits his teeth together until his jaw hurts.

“Shh, shh,” Mr. Small tells Roach and starts petting her head, “he doesn’t mean it.”

Mr. Tall is shaking his head, clearly still invested in hating Geralt as passionately as possible.

“If you’re asking me, I say we should take a pike and punch it through the bastard’s -”

Jaskier is definitely not asking. In fact, he is walking away. And through a carriage wall, if he must.

Geralt is right where Jaskier left him, except maybe a little more despondent.

“It’s not exactly a witcher-friendly environment.”

Jaskier comes right out with the merry news. Geralt lifts his head at that, tilts it thoughtfully.  
“They did kidnap me.”

So nonchalant, the man with heart of stone. But Geralt, of course, is used to the hatred. (People don’t just throw tomatoes at him, if worst comes to worst.)

“Apparently, some of them want to kill you.”

Geralt shrugs.

“It’s not so bad, by the looks of it.”

He fixes Jaskier with an expression that can’t be amused, must logically fall into the category of annoyed or at least indifferent. He’s made more than clear on the mountain –

Jaskier has lost them then, the smirks, the well-meant jabs, the companionable silences.

(Now who is seeing ghosts?)  
“Not – excuse you, didn’t you hear me when I told you about the outfit? Every day the same one, no variety, no -” He pauses and gives Geralt a calculating once-over. “I see how that wouldn’t be a problem for you. Is this the only shirt you own?”

“Getting off-topic.”  
“Right, right. So it seems to be some nobleman’s entourage. I spotted a mage too, might want to make a big bow around her. Pretty heavy locks and soldiers everywhere.”

Geralt is starting to look more pained with every word, the way that usually signals to Jaskier it’s his turn to be the optimistic one. Come to think of it, he almost always leaves that duty to Jaskier.

“Got any good news too?” he grunts.  
“Let me think – ah, those goons who want you dead seem to be extremely afraid of the guy who kidnapped you.”

Now Geralt looks at him coldly.

“How reassuring.”

“Ah, chin up,” Jaskier tries, “I’m sure everything -”

In that moment, the door snaps open. Jaskier flinches. He had expected to be able to hear them fumble with the multitude of locks they’d installed at the door before their grand entrance. And of course – it’s the magician. Who else could be so effortlessly dramatic?

“Witcher,” the mage announces snottily.

“Kidnapper,” Geralt inclines his head politely.

The mage ignores him, only looking around the carriage and taking another step inside.

“Wait,” he holds up a hand, “I’m sensing something strange around here.”

Jaskier recoils – then he straightens his doublet, scratches his head.

“Strange?” he mumbles, slightly offended.

“A draft?” Geralt asks, playing innocent, but Jaskier can hear the quiet amusement in his voice.

“No, not a draft.” The mage flicks his tongue in annoyance. “Something of magical origin.”

“Aaw, Geralt, did you hear that? He thinks I’m _magical_ ,” Jaskier preens, “and he hasn’t even seen what I can do with a lute and -”

“Perhaps a rat,” Geralt interrupts, levelling the mage with his stare.

“A rat?” Jaskier is getting more offended by the second. “Can’t you at least give me mouse? Mice are cute.”

Geralt is not quite smiling, but Jaskier can see little wrinkles around his eyes.

“None the matter,” the mage says. “You’ve been surprisingly easy to get a hold off, witcher. Not on top of your game, is that it? There are rumours you’ve lost your mind.”

Jaskier has a sneaking suspicion that last part might be his fault.

“Then why bother talking to me?” Geralt says only. “I’m not sure how much you’ll gain from the nonsensical ramblings of a lunatic.”

The mage’s lips thin out.

“It’s not information we need.”

That hopefully minimizes the chance for torture, unless they are out for revenge or torture just for the joy and fun of it. Jaskier starts circling the man, pondering if he might be lying.

“Then what is?”

Jaskier is painfully aware that Geralt is the only one of them in danger, the only one who can get hurt, and yet Jaskier is scared as if he were tied to Geralt, back to back. (And alive enough to feel the chains around his wrists.)

“For one, you needed to be neutralized. You should really be more careful where you mumble about your travel plans to yourself.”

At that, Jaskier perks up – travel plans?

“What’s wrong with my travel plans?” Geralt says, “Lettenhove not sunny enough this time of year? Inns too expensive?”

“It seems your plans were interfering with our own.”

Geralt doesn’t seem to find it necessary to mention that him and Jaskier hadn’t exactly had a plan, at least none exceeding “go to Jaskier’s hometown”. Jaskier starts to become suspicious. The mage might know something they don’t.

“In what way?”  
“That shouldn’t concern you, witcher.”

Great, Jaskier thinks. When has a mage ever been forthcoming?

What does the mage want in Lettenhove? Jaskier tries to focus, on anything other than the feeling of falling asleep, of being so terribly, terribly tired – what was before? If something happened in Lettenhove, it’s all the more likely Jaskier ended up there, too – that it happened to him too.

“We only need your help to get into the castle,” the mage goes on.

“Have you tried the door?” Geralt says drily.

“It’s not quite so simple.”

“Mind being less of a cryptic bastard?”

“You’ll see when you get there. I just want to make sure you are going to cooperate.”

“Ah, I don’t know,” Geralt narrows his eyes. “You haven’t even offered me tea.”

“But you are still alive. If you need more incentive, how about this,” the mage lets a ball of fire float above his palm, “I will be with you every step of the way.”

“Unwavering support. How nice,” Geralt says. “But I usually manage without.”

“We’re not taking any chances, witcher.”

The mage extinguishes his flame.

“Rest now. We will start our journey again in the morning.”

With those words, the mage disappears, the doors slamming shut behind him.

A breath leaves Jaskier’s body, one he would be damned to let Geralt hear.

“I would feel more well-rested if you hadn’t knocked me out,” Geralt says to the air.

“A little insulting they only sent their mage and not the head of the operation to make ominous threats,” Jaskier remarks.

“Didn’t you hear? That wasn’t a threat. He only wanted to hold my hand and pet my head while I did his dirty work.”

“Veiled threat, then,” Jaskier decides to compromise. “Well fuck. What do we do now?”

Geralt doesn’t seem overly optimistic, but then - he never does. And he makes it out of every tough spot in the end, Jaskier knows. But now he only shrugs, seeming more like a ghost than he has any right to, considering the circumstances.

_We can’t both fade out_ , Jaskier thinks. _You have to hold on. They say a person lives on through memory. Who is going to faintly think of me every ten years and not speak to a soul about my existence if you are gone?_

Jaskier thinks this very intently, but Geralt doesn’t look any less tired once he is done. He only blinks, once, twice, and looks at Jaskier very slowly, the way he never does anymore.

“I’d say you better start remembering what happened to you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier: so looks like I'm dead  
> Geralt: this is not happening
> 
> Geralt: This year, I totally did not lose my best friend.  
> Jaskier: Quit telling everyone I'm alive!  
> Geralt: I just can sometimes hear his voice.
> 
> I've decided this fic has three chapters now instead of two, because past-me has no executive power over this fanfiction.
> 
> University has started again two weeks ago and so far it has ripped my soul out of my body, dragged it through a swamp and eventually dumped it in a discounter parking lot - and apparently also rendered me incapable of finishing this fanfiction.
> 
> Also, I need to poke myself with a stick to write anything other than dialogue. The way this is going the next chaper will simply be a TV script for a show that you can direct yourself in your head.
> 
> Thank you to everyone for the lovely comments on the first chapter! It made me very happy.   
> I hope you like this chapter too! Thanks for reading :)


	3. Chapter 3

Once night has broken in, Jaskier thinks about the woman he has seen earlier, next to whoever is in command around here. He is certain he has seen her before. Glimpses of red wine, a blue ball gown and the smell of roasted pig flash through his mind. A baby crying. Silken fabric between his fingers. But it all eludes him, he can’t grasp any of the memories to make them tangible. Is this another side-effect of being dead? Just another way to fade into nothing? Will he keep losing pieces of himself until there is not even a melody left? When the life flashes before his eyes, everything will blur and blend, like colours mixing for a painting.

“I wonder how I died,” Jaskier says, deciding to distract himself with a more light-hearted topic. “It was probably a gruesome, bloody murder.”

“I bet you tripped,” Geralt says.

Up until then, Jaskier had thought he’d been meditating on his spot on the floor.

“A scorned lover seeking revenge, I can feel it,” Jaskier continues, although he’s starting to frown a little. “Maybe my wine was poisoned. No, no, probably by blade. There must have been a large puddle of blood on the floor.”

Jaskier wanders around the small space. Geralt isn’t looking at him, not yet, but Jaskier knows he can get a quick glance if he pesters long enough.

“Missed a step,” Geralt says to the floor. “Fell all the way down the stairs.”

“They wrote the name of their next victim in my blood.”

“Such a long way.”

A long time ago, Geralt would have smiled when he said that. Just so.

“You’re ruining all my fun,” Jaskier says, crossing his arms.

“Maybe,” Geralt says slowly, “it’s because death isn’t fun.”

He says it like another joke, but Jaskier has noticed the way he freezes up whenever Jaskier brings up the matter of his tragic demise.

“Not with that attitude it isn’t,” Jaskier says lightly instead of commenting on it.

But there is something strange in the way Geralt sometimes looks at him now, if he ever does. There is never a lot of movement on Geralt’s face. It’s just like a frozen image. Still, the way his gazes linger now, and how quick he is yet to look away –

(Jaskier never used to feel this unwanted, this unwelcome in Geralt’s space.)

Suddenly Geralt lifts his head in alert – but even Jaskier can hear it, the rustling, the clinking when metal hits wood. Someone is trying to open the door to this small prison cell and not doing a very good job of it. A few muttered curses later, the door swings open.

Of all people, it’s the prick from earlier who seems to have very strong feelings about horses. The tall one. He breaks into the room heavily, sword drawn and carelessly waving it around.

Jaskier freezes on the spot. Idiot hating on Geralt, unfortunate. Idiot _with a sword_ poses more of a problem.

Once the idiot has found his footing, he points the sword at Geralt. Geralt has gone completely still on the other side of the carriage.

“Now, now,” Geralt says slowly. “Might want to rethink pointing your sword at me. I’m sure whoever you’re working for won’t be happy if you hurt his captive.”

“Things is though, is this – I don’t give a fuck what that fuck thinks,” the man says, “fuck.”

“Seems careless not to put a guard in front of the carriage,” Geralt says, almost more to himself.

“Oh, they did,” an ugly grin stretches across the man’s face. “Unfortunately for you, that guard is me.”

“And what when your superior finds out what you’re doing?”

Geralt is still trying to reason, and damn it – “Geralt, he’s stupid!” Jaskier calls out.

“He’s drunk,” Geralt says.

The idiot frowns.

“He’sh – he’s nor – not drunk. He barely had one beer,” the idiot says, apparently not realizing he’s talking about himself in the third person, and frowns more deeply. “Maybe two.”

He starts swaying toward Geralt, aimlessly waving his sword around. Geralt struggles against his restraint, but Jaskier knows its pointless. Pointless – and so is he, just standing here, having to watch as his best friend is killed by a man with a moderately good to downright bad motivation for becoming a murderer and the sword skills of a five-year-old.

Jaskier comes closer, wishing he could undo Geralt’s restraints, punch the drunk in the jaw or at the least hold Geralt’s hand.

Directly in front of Geralt, the drunk finally steadies himself and squares his feet.

“Witcher scum,” he scowls and just for a moment, his eyes clear up – how nice of him to sober up for the occasion - as he raises his sword and brings it down. His movement isn’t precise, but he makes up for it in speed. As soon as Jaskier sees the blade come down, he throws himself forward with only one thought in mind – he can’t let Geralt die, not here, not like this.

He hits the bulk of a man from the side with full force. His heavy body begins to stagger, almost comically slowly, and he stumbles a few steps sideways. When he can’t regain his balance, he topples over completely. His head makes a loud _thunk_ when it hits the wall.

Jaskier just stands there paralyzed, watching a small puddle of blood form under the man’s head. He’s out cold. Jaskier killed him.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, a million panicked cries on his tongue, but every word gets stuck in his throat when he turns around – the sword is lodged in Geralt’s stomach, deep enough to stay upright.

“No, no, no.”

Jaskier sinks to his knees where Geralt is sitting, but his eyelids are dropping and his head is tilting and Jaskier tries to grab the sword, but he can’t, so he tries to grab Geralt’s shoulders, but suddenly he is air again and he can’t do a thing. Here he thought he was just human enough to save Geralt, but it was all for nothing. Materializing long enough to knock someone out, but not long enough to stop Geralt from bleeding out.

“Stay with me,” he says quickly. “Please. Come on.”

And Geralt doesn’t listen, never listens, he’ll pass out and leave Jaskier all alone here, with all this blood.

“I know I’m not one to talk, but the blood is supposed to stay _inside_ of your body,” Jaskier says, “inside, do you get me? You stubborn, idiotic -”

Jaskier keeps trying, can’t stop himself from reaching for Geralt – for the hands behind his back, for the wound, for his jaw.

“Just listen to me,” he tells Geralt, who is quietly wheezing, “listen, they don’t want you dead. Don’t do this. You’ll only make them angry. Me, too. I’ll be so fucking angry with you.”

Geralt makes another small noise, but he’s barely even here.

“Oh, you want to argue? Fine. Name one good reason why I should allow you to die right now.”

Geralt’s eyes stay shut and he doesn’t name a single reason.

“That’s what I thought,” Jaskier says.

Geralt’s mouth drops open slightly.

He’s gone.

No more agonized noises.

“Just cry for help,” Jaskier says and wants to shake him, wants to tear at his own hair. “Cry for help and they’ll save you. Please.”

Geralt sits there like a puppet with its strings cut. 

“Someone,” Jaskier croaks. “Please! Can anyone hear me?”

It’s so silent.

“Help!” Jaskier cries. Silently. “Hello? Somebody help us!”

The man with no hands and no voice slumps down on the floor.

“If you think I’ll let you into the afterlife, you’ve got another thing coming,” he says to Geralt. “I’m sorry, but there’s no space for you. You’ll have to go right back where you came from.”

He points to the other man by the wall.

“And if _you_ show up here, I’ll kick in your face,” he says.

But nobody does. And Jaskier doesn’t know if it’s a good sign. After all, this doesn’t seem to be where every dead person goes – if it were, it would surely be a little more crowded. So maybe it’s just Jaskier who got lost and Geralt is right where he should be. (Maybe he’s just gone.)

(Maybe he’s not gone yet.)

Okay. Alright. New plan. Jaskier just needs to come up with something. Geralt is the brawn of the operation, fine. But Jaskier is – actually, considering the amount of times Jaskier’s decisions almost got them both killed, Geralt is also the brain. Jaskier is there to provide the running commentary, the background music, the companionable chatter, really, Jaskier is amazing at – being really fucking annoying.

That’s right. Mark that one down as a strength.

Jaskier gets up. He’s going to poltergeist the fuck out of these people.

* * *

The bucket does not budge. Jaskier can kick and push as much as he likes, he is not kicking or pushing anything. Maybe he is approaching this the whole wrong way and he needs to summon his ghost powers like a mage.

Roach is simply munching on hay, completely oblivious to what is about to happen to her water bucket.

“I compel you,” he says and splays his fingers toward the bucket.

Nothing.

“I command you,” he tries and splays his fingers more forcefully.

Still nothing.

“I am actually begging you,” he says, clasping his hands together and falling to his knees, “please. I’ll do whatever you want.”

The bucket does not react.

“Are those barrels bullying you because you’re only a water bucket?” Jaskier points to the barrels stacked upon a cart. “You want something more sophisticated? Should I snitch some wine?”

Not even bribery seems to convince the bucket to fall over.

“Fine!” Jaskier throws his hands in the air. “Be that way. See if I ever protect you from Roach’s bad breath.”

Jaskier quickly gets on his feet again and begins roaming the camp. He just needs to find something big, preferably metal and easy to throw over. Maybe some lances or armour or –

Jaskier’s foot catches on something on the ground and suddenly he is falling and his hip collides with one of the torches that were put up and lit all around the camp. With fascinated horror, Jaskier watches as the torch hits the stack of hay for the horses, which catches fire. The fire immediately wanders to the closest tent, which takes on flames as well, and then there is a scream – and voila, Jaskier committed his second murder of the day.

“Of course,” Jaskier mumbles, propping himself up on his hands, “ _like this_ my ghost powers work. Fantastic.”

A woman stumbles out of the tent, still screaming, and a moment later, there is commotion everywhere, since every knight in this place feels obviously compelled to save a maiden in need even in his sleep. And it’s the woman from earlier. Out of nowhere, Jaskier is certain she was there the night he died. He remembers seeing her tilt her head back and laughing. Why?

He can’t focus on it, because people are running and shouting and carrying water buckets -

Chaos, good. It might only be a little too much.

“Who left the door to our prisoner open?” Jaskier hears someone call. He whirls around and makes for where Geralt must be still sitting, still bleeding. Right in front of the carriage, the mage, ever so paranoid, felt the need to immediately check up on it.

Jaskier holds his breath. (He could do that forever now.) Relying on the side of evil to save Geralt doesn’t sit right with him, but he doesn’t have any other options. After all, at least the side of evil is real.

The mage enters the carriage, lets out a quiet curse and then calls for a medic loudly. Jaskier follows him, sits next to Geralt rigidly and watches as the medic comes in and starts to remove the sword from Geralt’s body.

He’s alive. He must be. They wouldn’t bother if he wasn’t alive.

Jaskier can cope with angry husbands and monster attacks and he can cope with literally, actually dying, but this is too much. Geralt has to stay here. He doesn’t know anything else, presses jittery fingers to his lips, but he knows this. Geralt needs to stay. There are no other possibilities. There are no worlds in which Geralt leaves Jaskier.

Jaskier can’t have this on his consciousness, he can’t, because maybe Geralt had some points about shit-shovelling and maybe Jaskier should have just left, for real, without coming back.

(Did it hurt when Jaskier died? Was it slow? Or like falling asleep? What was the last thing he thought of?)

Geralt’s head drops and his chin hits his chest.

(Did he think about Geralt just before his heart gave out?)

He is still not allowed to touch, only watch as the medic cuts away Geralt’s blood-soaked shirt. And maybe he had never been allowed, only took what had not been offered.

(Did he dream about the beginning? The unmarred, unscarred beginning.)

Yes. He might not have been the one guiding the blade, but ultimately…

Yes, fading away might be easier. Might be what Geralt did, why he’s not here, why he left Jaskier and yelled at him on a mountain.

The brave ones just go. It’s the cowards who stay and cling to a fantasy. The brave ones fall asleep. And they close their eyes, because they aren’t afraid of the dark.

It’s not a waste. It’s not a loss.

It’s the culmination of a hundred mistakes.

Jaskier’s eyes fall shut and his body begins to tilt and he wishes he could lean against Geralt, just for a little bit –

A groan. A pained groan.

Jaskier’s eyes shoot open.

Geralt is awake. He’s making it. The medic finishes wrapping bandages around Geralt’s torso.

He’s making it.

* * *

In the morning, Geralt wakes up – he had dozed off again in the night. For so long, Jaskier had sat there watching the slow rise and fall of Geralt’s chest, the quiet proof of it. Even when the carriage started moving again as their unwanted journey continued, Jaskier couldn’t take his eyes off of him. Geralt’s eyes blink open sluggishly, like he just had a nice dream. Probably one in which Jaskier has decided to live out the rest of his days as a hermit underground or on the other side of the world or, as is more likely, on the moon. (And Jaskier can’t blame him.)

Jaskier stands up when he sees Geralt stirring.

“You are never doing this to me again,” Jaskier announces. “I nearly had a heart attack.”

Geralt frowns and opens his mouth to say something, presumably to point out that a condition for Jaskier’s heart to stop is for it to be beating in the first place, but Jaskier quickly holds up a finger.

“No, no, no. I’m not taking comments or criticism at the present moment.”

Geralt’s lips tilt into a smile.

“Just tell me you’re fine,” Jaskier says. He feels about three decades older.

“I am.”

Jaskier lets out a deep sigh.

“You saved me.”

It’s strange to hear Geralt say that, like the world has turned upside down.

“I’m sure that gaping wound in your chest would say otherwise.”

“It’s a small scrape at most.”

Jaskier does not have the energy to put up with this now.

“I swear, Geralt, I _will_ punch you in the face,” he threatens tiredly, “there’s a twenty percent chance that it will even work.”

“Twenty percent, huh? Quite the improvement from the zero percent it was yesterday.”

Jaskier turns on his heel and looks out the small, gritted window. He watches as they move through the forest, past an endless line of trees. Their carriage is positioned at the front, only four riders in front of them, the rest of them following behind.

“I know. I’m amazing. Thank me later.”

All Jaskier needs to do is come up with a plan. Of course, thanks to Geralt, they missed their window. It will be difficult for any move they make to go unnoticed.

“You got somewhere to be?”

“ _We_. We have somewhere to be. That is, far, _far_ away from here.”

Geralt gives him another one of his exasperated looks.

“I’m sorry, I’m a little tied up at the moment.”

“Har, har. Do the jokes help?”

If they stay here any longer, who knows what that creepy mage has planned for Geralt. Who knows who else harbours unjustified resentment towards witchers.

“No, but neither does making useless suggestions.”

“At least I’m _trying_ to be productive. You’re just sitting there!”

“I was stabbed,” Geralt remarks drily. “And tied up.”

Jaskier gives him a concerned once-over. He can’t tell through the bindings, but he knows Geralt heals quickly.

“So? It’s not the first time. Shouldn’t you be a masterful escape artist after all these kidnappings?”

Geralt rolls his eyes, but then he looks contemplative and Jaskier can see him flex his arms.

“I _might_ be able to get out of these ropes. Luckily, the blood has softened them a little.”

Jaskier cringes backwards. He hadn’t realized the sword had gone all the way through Geralt’s torso. If Geralt weren’t a witcher, it would have surely killed him.

“That’s not lucky,” Jaskier hisses.

“So I break out of these binds and have all the freedom to walk the whole two metres from here to the door. Or did your brilliant plan also include me taking on dozens of armed soldiers while I’m weaponless and recovering from a stab wound?”

“Obviously, we’ll need a distraction. That’s where I come in.”

Jaskier is fairly confident that he can push something over. He would also settle for starting another fire. Whatever. It will work itself out.

“Great idea, except maybe for the fact that you’re invisible to everyone but me.”

Geralt seems to have zero confidence in Jaskier’s plan, so Jaskier has to make up for it by being twice as sure.

“You’re forgetting that I’m a ghost. And you know what ghosts do? They haunt places. And I’ll have you know that I’m excellent at -”

“Wait,” Geralt suddenly sits up straighter. “I’m hearing something.”

“Yes, it’s my lovely voice, thank you for noticing. _Not_ a rat. No matter what certain people like to imply -”

“Horses. I’m hearing horses. Someone is coming.”

Jaskier moves closely to the small window and peeks outside. In front of him, he can see the person he suspects to be the leader of this operation, the one with the extravagant feathered hat and ridiculous facial hair. He’s sitting on a tall white horse, all straight-backed and snooty. There’s something about him, Jaskier just can’t put his finger on it…

Suddenly, the horses neigh and come to an abrupt halt. Jaskier twists his head, trying to see better. They appear to have reached a crossing. But what’s causing the hold-up?

“You,” Snooty says loudly, his voice seething, “what are _you_ doing here?”

Ah, a new arrival. Someone who Snooty isn’t overly fond of. That might bode well for them.

Jaskier finds the right angle to look at the road crossing theirs and sees – more horses and men with weapons. And coming right toward them at the front – a young man with golden locks cascading over his shoulders.

“I heard rumours about the castle of Lettenhove,” the newcomer says. “I have come to find out what really happened, see if the house of Lettenhove is in danger.”

In danger? Jaskier wishes desperately he could remember anything about that night, when he was sure he had planned to come home. But at least this man has good intentions toward his family.

“If I find them dead, I will take charge. And if I don’t, I will kill the survivors myself.”

Spoken too soon.

Jaskier keeps scrutinizing the man’s face, until it suddenly klicks.

“Wait a minute – is that my cousin Henryk? I haven’t seen him in ages! Wow, has his hair always been this shiny? What a pleasant surprise.”

Geralt makes a strange noise behind him, but Jaskier waves him away.

“Well, except for the part where he wants to kill me and my family. That’s not so pleasant.”

Geralt’s kidnapper, Mr. Snooty, gets a fierce look on his face. Suddenly, he too seems awfully familiar to Jaskier. And the flag with the family crest, rose-coloured – of course. It’s the family crest of Lettenhove.

“Right! And the other one is my cousin Fryderyk. I didn’t recognize him at all with that giant moustache.”

He watches as Fryderyk advances with his horse.

“See, Fryderyk will defend my family’s honour. I’ve known him since I was a child. He won’t let Henryk -”

“A conflict of interest, as I too am here to become Count of Lettenhove and assume rule of these lands,” Fryderyk says.

Spoken too soon, _again_. Jaskier almost sighs. This is just like those times Fryderyk became seriously invested in a game of chess when they were younger. Only that now the King and Queen standing in the way of victory are Jaskier’s parents. But it’s understandable – Fryderyk wants power, had always been a little jealous of Jaskier’s position as viscount. Jaskier tries not to take it personally.

“But this is not just about Lettenhove,” Fryderyk continues, “it’s about my long-standing personal grievances with Julian Alfred Pankratz, the current Viscount de Lettenhove.”

Okay, Jaskier _will_ take it a little personally.

“Cousin, I can’t let you continue onward. Rightfully, these lands belong to me. And if anyone is owed the privilege of slitting Julian’s throat, it’s clearly me.”

Wow. No love for Jaskier among his cousins. What did he ever do to them?

“No one hates Julian more than I do,” Fryderyk says, now beginning to circle Henryk on his horse. “For years, I have tried to pursue a serious career as a fiddle-player, only to be thwarted at every turn by our oh so beloved bard.”

Yes, it’s true that whenever there was music required at a feast, it’s Jaskier who is playing it, but surely this is an overreaction.

“But he did the unforgiveable to me,” Henryk spits. “When he bewitched my dearest lady Kaska on our wedding night, turned her head and defiled her.”

Fair.

“Ah, those are petty squabbles compared to the contest between two artists – well, one artist and an untalented swindler. One evening, he got drunk and smashed my fiddle on some poor bastard’s head.”

Right, Jaskier had completely forgotten about that.

“I caught him together with my former chamber maid, too!”

He had forgotten about that, too.

“That’s _nothing_ ,” Fryderyk snarls, “I found him once kissing my own mother.”

Oh. Yikes.

“He set an ox loose on my birthday feast.”

In Jaskier’s defence, that ox had needed a little excitement in its life.

“He punched _me_ in the face! For a harmless comment about his inferior skills and tasteless songs.”

Harmless? It had been an absolutely uncalled for, completely unreasonable and really -

“He told me a kikimora lived under the kitchen sink and I believed him,” Henryk says.  
There is a moment of awkward silence.

“I was eight at the time,” he adds defensively.

“The point is,” Fryderyk calls out, “I am going to kill Julian personally and I’m going to enjoy it.”

“Over my dead body,” Henryk snarls back.

“So be it! We will duel over it. The winner gets to pass and attempt to take over the castle first. The loser has to surrender or wait their turn if the attempt of the winner should prove to be unsuccessful.”

The conversation seems to be over with that.

So his cousins are having a contest over who gets to kill him. Jaskier sighs deeply and pinches his nose.

“Gods, why does this keep happening to me?” he mutters under his breath.

Then Jaskier huffs and turns to Geralt.

“I really don’t know what all the fuzz is about,” he says.

Geralt gives him a look between fond and exasperated.

“What a waste of time,” Jaskier shakes his head, “imagine their surprise when they find my dead body. Buffoons.”

“Yes,” Geralt says slowly, “ _that’s_ the issue.”

“Anyway, this is all going according to plan.”

Geralt looks at him blankly, once again not thinking optimistically enough.

“Remember? The distraction? They’ll move their duel over there, where they can have more space, everyone else will come to watch and all of them will be _plenty_ distracted.”

“You have a point,” Geralt says.

He begins to fiddle with the ropes, rotating his wrists and pulling his shoulders up.

“See?” Jaskier says while he waits for Geralt to break free. “I always have a plan. This is exactly what I was thinking off when I smashed the fiddle over that rude man’s head.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In other news, I'm still writing! Despite all signs pointing to the opposite.
> 
> In other other news, this fanfiction still isn't finished. Me, having any concept at all about how long my fanfiction is going to be? Less likely than you'd think.
> 
> I hope you liked this chapter! Thanks for reading :)


	4. Chapter 4

Geralt can’t explain to himself how he survived the drunk man’s attack. Maybe the man stumbled and hit his head, the way drunk people do? But then how did the medic know of his predicament? He hadn’t screamed. It had all happened too quickly for that.

But the only other explanation –

Well, there is no other explanation.

Because Jaskier can’t be dead. Can’t be another lost soul chained to the world of the living by regret and festering anger.

Geralt is riding on Roach, grabbed her quickly when he made his way off the camp, and they are flying through the night away from that place. The throbbing ache in his chest makes him weary, but he’s healing, so it doesn’t matter.

What happened in Lettenhove? What happened to Jaskier? What happened while Geralt wasn’t there, was too busy being ignorant and self-absorbed and a complete asshole.

He clasps Roach’s reigns in his hands more tightly, the only thing to hold on to.

Geralt was just alone for too long. The real Jaskier is still around somewhere, making noise somewhere, brightening the world somewhere. He is more than just a footprint in the cold, cold snow.

(Why couldn’t they have taken him instead? He has never been wanted anywhere, he has never known what to do with this life except for swinging his sword. So many days have passed by but not a day has passed by until Jaskier –)

(The only real thing Geralt ever had.)

Roach navigates through the trees swiftly, headed for Lettenhove. He just needs to hold on until then, until he sees. Until he knows.

And he thinks Jaskier is behind him, following, but it’s just a thought.

(He thought it was just another blip on the road. He has insulted Jaskier a thousand times before.)

The sun is low when Roach finally slows, outside the big wall around the castle of Lettenhove. Geralt has never been here before. It doesn’t look like the kind of place someone like Jaskier would have grown up in, with its tall towers and wide spaces. Too big, too impersonal.

Geralt slides off Roach’s back with a gasp. The pain of the sudden movement overwhelms him and brings him to his knees.

It doesn’t look like the kind of place someone like Jaskier would die.

That thought is the one choking him up and making him hook his fingers in the grass before him.

“Geralt?”

Nothing to hold on to.

“Geralt, what’s wrong? Is it the injury?”  
But that is only pain. And this goes deeper. And it isn’t healing.

“Just talk to me, please.”

And that voice is unbearable, like fingers hooking themselves into his mind and trying to tear it all apart. Geralt lets himself fall to the ground, then flips around. Lying on his back, he looks up.

There is Jaskier’s face, the red sunlight shining through him. It’s half a memory. The anguish written in his features is familiar.

(Geralt doesn’t get to keep people.)

(It’s a game he can only lose.)

“Tell me you’re not dead,” Geralt rasps from the ground.

Jaskier takes a stunned step back.

“Geralt…“

“Tell me you’re here.”

But there is only sunlight in Jaskier’s face.

_(If you were here, I would take your hand. I would hold you close.)_

Jaskier drops to his knees next to Geralt, just out of Geralt’s reach. For once in his existence, he doesn’t seem to know what to say.

_(Nothing could make me let go.)_

It feels like a headache that just won’t go away.

“Tell me I’ve lost my mind,” Geralt says, “please.”

But Jaskier only looks at him, the shock palpable in the way his mouth hangs open. Apology in his eyes.

Geralt lets his face harden. No, he thinks. No. He gets up, ignoring his throbbing wound.

“I’m not giving up on you.”

Determination coursing through him, Geralt starts walking toward the wall around the castle. He stops right outside the tall gates and takes a deep breath. It can’t be that hard to open this door – even if it were locked, even if there were a thousand spells on it, Geralt could get it open, even if he had to do it with the sheer force of his hands.

Geralt presses his hand against the door and the door –

Falls open. Easily.

Geralt draws out his sword and cautiously steps through the open gate. Nothing can stop him now, no ambush, no trap, no arrogant cousins. Not death.

And – ah, this is more like it. Immediately behind the gate, there is a giant hedge of roses and thorns, so thick Geralt can’t see past it and as tall as the stone wall itself. Finally, Geralt can feel his amulet vibrating – it’s magic. Naturally. After all, Geralt doubts the roses were planted there to freshen up the castle’s garden.

So this is what they kidnapped him for. So he would make them a passage through the hedge.

“Oh, nothing good,” someone says, an old voice, like creaky furniture, “nothing good can come from this.”

Geralt lifts his sword higher, trying to get a firmer grip, and turns around.

“Dangers untold are awaiting you, foolish one, if you venture any further.”

An old lady clothed in rags is sitting right next to the gate, watching him out of small beady eyes. Geralt doesn’t lower his sword and doesn’t step closer.

“It’s terrible, the fate you are chasing. Please don’t -”

The lady starts coughing, but Geralt only watches her silently, frozen in spot. Finally, the coughing lets up.

“Please don’t stop on my account.”

Geralt is stunned into speaking.

“You’re not trying to warn me off?”

“Of course not. Far be it from me to keep you from your agonizingly painful death. If you really would enjoy it so tremendously to die like a stuck pig, just as the other dimwits before you, by all means, go ahead.”

“You’re insane.”

“Only a little,” the woman smiles, showing her rotten teeth, “mostly just gleeful at seeing airheaded men meet their well-deserved destiny.”

“A sadist, then,” Geralt says and lowers his sword, nearly breathing a sigh of relief. He’d been worried she was a witch or unexpectedly proficient at sword-fighting.

“Someone who enjoys the simpler pleasures in life,” the woman keeps smiling. “And seeing these self-proclaimed heroes, exemplary in every pursuit, the embodiments of honour and bravery, walk into the hedge of death with their battle cries – well, battle cries at first, then cries of death and immeasurable pain – it’s provided me with more entertainment than I’ve had in decades.”

Geralt runs that through his mind. So people have tried to get into the castle before and didn’t succeed. That’s not surprising. And it’s certainly not going to stop him.

The old lady must know, otherwise she wouldn’t be telling him all this.

“So what about you? Please, tell me what makes you run into your own demise so I can laugh about it later. Is it that you want to take over these lands? Become a lord? Do you dream of riches and wealth and those terribly stuffy dinner parties the nobles are so fond of?”

Geralt doesn’t know why he tells her – but he has only one thought now –

“I need to save Jaskier.”

“Ah. Love. The most foolish one of them all.”

Geralt lifts his sword again and steps toward the roses. The woman doesn’t matter now. Nothing does. Only that he keeps going. Jaskier is waiting for him on the other side, he just knows it.

“Wait,” someone says, and for a moment, Geralt thinks it’s the old woman, but then he realizes it’s Jaskier. “Listen, I’ve changed my mind. You shouldn’t go in there. It’s too dangerous. And not worth it.”

Undeterred, Geralt keeps walking until he has reached the edge of the hedge.

“Uhm, Geralt, did you hear a word she just said?” Jaskier said rapidly, “like, I don’t want to shame you for being a people-pleaser, guilty of it myself more than once, but maybe not when the person you’re trying to please is someone who literally just said they would enjoy watching you suffer and die? Just a thought.”

Jaskier is breathing on the other side. He must be.

“I’m being serious. You stop right there.”

The only way is through. Geralt is sure of it.

“Will you please think this through before you charge without a plan again? You could get a mage to help, maybe even, and I hate to say this, Yennefer -”

“No time.”

Geralts begins to slash the vines right in front of him, but within moments, they’ve grown back. So he will need to be quick.

“Please, just this once, don’t be a colossal idiot – walk away. Ever heard of ‘pick your battles’? This is the one we do _not_ pick. Agreed?”

Geralt steps forward and into the hedge, slashing over and over. Quickly, the vines close in around him, over his head and soon after, they sling around his arms and around his torso, each thorn digging into his skin. But it doesn’t matter, so long as he can still swing his sword. As long as he can keep moving.

“You’re hurting yourself,” Jaskier yells from somewhere behind him.

Yells from nowhere.

Because Geralt knows that Jaskier’s heart is beating on the other side.

* * *

Jaskier can’t watch this. It’s all his fault. If it weren’t for him, Geralt never would have come here.

Hurting himself.

(You’re cutting yourself raw on my best intentions. Don’t bleed out on the edge of my smile, don’t bruise yourself on my tender touches.)

Hurting himself.

(Stay away from me.)

(Let me go.)

The realization is sudden and altogether damning.

(For your sake, let me go.)

“It’s not too late to turn back, do you hear me?”

Geralt falters only for a moment.

“I’m a lost cause,” Jaskier says, the words burning in his throat, despite how true they really are. It’s what he was trying not to believe all this time, but by now it’s glaringly obvious. But that’s what you get for chasing after ghosts. “You have to let me go.”

“Never.”

Why does he always have to be so stubborn? Can’t he see Jaskier is trying to save his life?

“Come on. Look at me.”

Geralt doesn’t even turn.

“ _This_ is what’s left of me,” Jaskier says anyway, “whatever you’re looking for – it’s gone. Just go. I – I’ll never be that man again.”

He is a fraction of the person he used to be. He hadn’t wanted it to be true, but now –

The truth is.

There is no saving him any longer.

In the end, there is only sleep.

“He’s dead, he’s gone, stop looking for him,” Jaskier is yelling now, not because he thinks Geralt can’t hear him, but because he is getting desperate.

On that mountain –

He’s standing on a mountain –

He’s dying on a mountain –

There is something hollow in being unloved. Something spacious.

The untouchable one, the cold solitude and that heavy, heavy stone in his chest. How each step hurts more – toward where, toward what? Not even he could make a home out of nowhere or a friend out of nobody.

Really, what’s the point to Geralt giving up his life now? The truth is, Jaskier was lost even before he became a ghost. Long before.

That foolish assumption he had made for years about Geralt, of being appreciated, maybe even loved, that’s what kept him going. And without that, what is there?

The truth is, there is no reason to go on anymore. He has lost sight of it all. All the applause is empty, all his drinks empty. There is no point to the path. There is only _lonely_ and somewhere in the distance – _lonelier_.

 _Just give up on me_ , Jaskier wants to say, but the words are lodged in his throat. _Give up on me_.

He’s not coming back. He’s never going to touch Roach again, he’s never going to muster a genuine laugh again. He is never going to sing a raunchy song without feeling numb inside ever again. He is never going to look forward to spring again. He will never stop drinking in the evening and feeling tired in the morning, midday, afternoon.

He will never be as real as he was twenty years ago.

Why can’t Geralt _see_ that?

But Geralt probably has never given up on anything in his life.

Jaskier goes after Geralt, through the vines and roses, the way ghosts do, but he can’t see a thing. He tries to listen for the sound of Geralt’s sword but hearing anything is hard too.

This must be his punishment, to watch the man he –

To watch him die, not able to do a thing about it. To know it was his fault.

And how did he end up here? From a tavern in Posada to having to watch Geralt die. From being a restless, bored child in this very castle to being – a ghost and right back at the start.

Back then, he’d had so many dreams. To see the world. To become famous. And after Geralt, he had it all.

Until –

Well.

How does someone who has everything he ever wanted (everything he imagined would ease the ache in his chest) have the audacity to mourn hope?

He had built his life slowly, carefully, and only realized once it fell over that it had been made of cards.

(I just wanted you to see me.)

He can’t help but think the roses grew because of him in some way. A flowerbed made of each of his shortcomings, each failed attempt at winning anything.

A man with thorns growing from his skin – how is that not a monster? How is that not someone to be valiantly fought and slain eventually?

(But Geralt, the noble idiot, has always had a penchant for trying to save monsters.)

* * *

Geralt makes his way through the hedge slowly, painstakingly.

It’s dark in there and Geralt can’t see anything even with enhanced vision, can’t see how much further he has to walk until he is out. His breath grows heavy – there’s just no space, no coordination, he is just stabbing blindly.

But then – somewhere, anywhere in the hedge – the vines grow thicker and wind tighter. They pull around his arms, so he can’t move the sword, and immobilize his legs too. No amount of trashing can make the vines budge any longer. He tries to free his limbs or get his sword to cut the vines, but it’s useless. Still, it’s only when one of the vines with pricking thorns coils around his throat that he realizes he might not make it.

They squeeze down slowly. One vine wraps around his stomach, pressing into the stab wound. Soon, he will lose his breath.

He will fail Jaskier again.

And he wanted – oh, he _wanted_. Something so human. Something so fleeting.

He’d wanted something beyond the monsters, beyond the darkness. Something beyond dying in a fight, in pain.

Dying alone.

He had dared. To want. So many sweet things.

They are choking him.

This is the world without Jaskier.

Dark.

Painful.

Not worth staying in.

And after his calloused hands have harmed so many – now pull them tight. Make it hurt.

Nothing sweet ever reaches a place like this. No light misguided enough to find its way in.

His skin pricked, it all oozes out. The fear. The anger, at the world, at himself. And the longing. For a thousand things he could never let himself want.

The unnamed animal in his chest that must have been –

It’s escaping now, like an undefinable scent, something so sweet -

He is dying surrounded by roses. One of them grazes his cheek like a gentle touch. A petal at his hand, soft and light. A thorn lodged in his wrist right next to it.

Maybe –

Maybe there is something sweet in death.

Jaskier would know.

(If you are here somewhere, chocked by vines -)

(I hope it didn’t hurt as much as this.)

How can Geralt let go?

(Show me how to do it.)

(Light my way.)

He closes his eyes.

(I hope there were roses.)

…

“Geralt!”

…

“Please!”

…

“Just turn around and go, don’t do this to yourself.”

Jaskier can’t see him. Jaskier doesn’t know.

Geralt is not going to tell him.

“It’s pointless. I’m already dead, it’s over. Will you never understand that?”

Never.

 _Never_.

That’s right.

Giving up on himself would be so, so easy. But he can’t give up on Jaskier. So Geralt clenches his teeth.

“No,” he says, and although he says it quietly, Jaskier hears him and Geralt can suddenly sense him right next to him. So he keeps talking. “I’m not going to abandon you again.”

“You didn’t abandon me -”

“You were already dead to me then.”

It sounds wrong, but Geralt has trouble putting words together. He leans into the vines, flexing every one of his muscles.

“Too human,” he grunts out, “too breakable. I knew you were going to leave me, so I turned my back.”

He strains harder, with as much force as he can muster.

“But I want the years,” he confesses through his teeth, “few of them. I want the minutes.”

 _Please_.

Jaskier is alive on the other side. He knows he is.

So he gives another push until finally, the vines _snap_ underneath the pressure and Geralt has just enough time to swing the sword across a number of vines, cutting all attached to his body. The grip around his throat eases and he can draw in a few laboured breaths.

He cuts through the next with focus, more quickly than before, and then, impossibly, he falls through the vines, free, and lands on his hands.

He stares at them for a moment, scratched up and bloody, but on solid ground. Free.

He made it.

* * *

“Twice,” Jaskier is seething. “You did this to me _twice_ in one day.”

Geralt pushes himself off the ground and stumbles a few steps away from the hedge. He looks worse for wear again, more blood seeping through his shirt from the stab wound and there are little wounds from thorns all over his skin. He flattens his messy hair with one hand.

“I think one happened yesterday.”

“You think I care? You are going to be the death of me. Yes, you heard me right. I’m going to die a second, more fatal, deathier death, just because of the stress you’re putting me through.”

It’s unbelievable.

Geralt starts walking toward the castle, the entrance door now clearly visible, but Jaskier is not done yelling.

“Are you trying to start a courtship with death herself? Because it seems you two are getting awfully close. If you don’t start being more careful, you’ll get your wish and be united with her _forever_.”

“I’m alive, aren’t I?”

“But not very interested in keeping it that way, apparently.”

Geralt presses open the big wooden door, not deeming it necessary to knock, which is probably a wise decision, considering the fairly unwelcoming exterior decorations. Jaskier follows closely behind, all words of complaint suddenly dying in his throat.

The entrance hall looks just the way it did the last time Jaskier visited. But right next to the entrance, two guards in uniform are slumped down on the ground. Jaskier gasps.

“Are they dead?”

For a moment, he can see the image flashing through his mind – his whole family murdered, one by one. (Him, too.)

By a usurper? An assassin? Perhaps some sort of clever monster? A vampire! Those are sneaky. There might have been a betrayal, complete with dramatic reveal.

“No,” Geralt says. That must mean he can hear their heartbeats still. “Sleeping.”

“Sleeping on the job? Not very good guards, then.”

Geralt frowns.

“Well? Wake them up.”

“My medallion is vibrating.”

Magic, then?

Geralt bends down anyway and shakes the shoulder of one of the guards. He starts snoring.

“He’s out cold,” Jaskier remarks.

Geralt shrugs. He straightens again and begins to walk into the hallway.

“The main hall is straight through,” Jaskier tells him. That’s where his parents would hold all their celebration and feasts, with enough room next to the long tables for dances.

Usually, Jaskier would have been performing for everyone, but he has a feeling that’s not what happened this time.

Finally, they enter the great hall. It looks like any other day after a big feast, when the set-up hasn’t been taken down yet, all the flowers still there, the tables still put to the side. He can picture it in the glow of the candlelight, the laughter, the cheer and merriness of drunken nobles who want to let down their guard, just for one night… Not a memory, just something he has seen time and time again, whenever he visits and all those years ago, when it was his life.

But now. Everyone is here. Dressed up, on the floor. Some slumped over the table on their chairs. The musicians by the tall windows. Jaskier recognizes a few faces, some of them he would consider distant friends. Motionless.

“Geralt?” Jaskier croaks.

“Sleeping,” he says.

“Why?” Jaskier gets out, walking into the room. “Why would anyone do this? Why not kill them?”

“Must be a curse.”

Jaskier steps over a few sleeping bodies to one of the tables. Another face he recognizes. A young blonde girl with her head on the table, a curl over her nose. Jaskier has known her since she was only a small child.

And now.

Are they dreaming, he wonders. Are they dreaming of something nice? Of ballroom dances? Of a bright future that will never come to pass?

They look so peaceful, so… free.

Those two by the doors to the servant halls, they are brothers. Jaskier remembers them squabbling and arguing since they were children. Now they lie over each other in something resembling an embrace. No trace of resentment on their faces.

(It would be nice, wouldn’t it?)

He has seen his uncle Bartek, an incorrigible drunk, passed out on the floor many times. But those times, it was with a bottle in hand, with his mother chastising so loudly the entire castle could hear it.

(To lie down.)

His distant cousin Aga, a young girl still, who could never stop talking or pacing the halls, now she is sleeping as soundly as anything.

(To be free of it all.)

“Are you remembering anything?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier is. He remembers his mother, talking for hours about the flower arrangements. He remembers the first time his father allowed him to play the lute at a feast. He remembers wanting to run as fast as his uncle’s hunting dog, wanting to run away from this place.

Then he spots a crib at the far end of the hall. He focuses on it, tugged forward by a strange feeling.

A baby is lying in the crib, sleeping the way you see babies often do.

“Her,” Jaskier says, “I think I saw her that night. There’s something… Something there, but I can’t remember what it is.”

“Hm,” Geralt responds. “But you’re not here. So, just think. You’re at the feast. Walk me through it. What would you do?”

“How can you ask me – aren’t you aware that I am an enigma, my actions ineffable, my next thought entirely unpredictable, even to myse -”

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier looks at Geralt in silence.

Geralt raises his eyebrow.

“Probably get outrageously drunk,” Jaskier admits.

Geralt lets out a very deep sigh.

“There’s a smaller room at the back. Guests would retire there later in the evening. Or earlier, if you wanted to speed the loss of inhibitions and common sense up a little.”

Jaskier leads them to the room hesitantly. If they don’t find out what happened to him soon, he doesn’t know what to do. He knows they have to break this curse somehow, before any of his idiotic cousins manage to get here. Maybe the rest isn’t important. Not really.

Geralt marches through the door first, but then he stops in his tracks.

Someone is sitting at the centre of the table in the back. The curtains are drawn, so it’s too dark at first to make out the face, but… the short brown hair… His least favorite doublet. Jaskier steps closer. It might be half-squished on the table, but Jaskier has admired this face in the mirror many times over the years.

“Oh,” Jaskier says softly.

“Jaskier!”

Geralt rushes to Jaskier’s body.

“I’m right here, you know,” grumbles the ghost.

“You’re alive,” Geralt says in a breath. He checks his pulse, too. And it’s strange, the feeling rising in Jaskier’s chest, for all that Jaskier was telling himself that he didn’t care, he suddenly finds that he _does_. What was it that Geralt had said? _I want the years. I want the minutes._

And Jaskier…

Jaskier does too.

He wants to breathe again. He wants to touch the world. He wants to play the lute, he wants to sit in the grass, he wants to kiss Geralt so hard he’ll fall over. He wants to wake up in the morning.

“How do you know that’s me?” Jaskier says, because he knows better than to hope. “What if it’s a doppler? Or an illusion?”

“It’s you,” Geralt says firmly.

It might just be Geralt’s wishful thinking or his inexplicable yet unwavering faith in him, but Jaskier doesn’t argue anyway.

Not a ghost.

Still alive. Only sleeping.

Jaskier snorts quietly.

“What’s funny?”

“It’s just – I was thinking, when all this began, that it might just be a bad dream.”

Geralt turns to him then, though his hand still lingers on Jaskier’s corporeal wrist, and smiles. It’s one of those bright smiles that Jaskier has rarely ever seen. Not a close-lipped one. Not one to hold back, not one to tuck away.

Just pure relief.

“All this time, and you’ve just been taking a fucking nap,” Geralt says, but he’s still smiling. He says it lighter than anything he has said since Jaskier found him again. And this time he’s really looking at Jaskier. Like he’s here. Like he’s real.

So Jaskier smiles back.

“What can I say, I need my beauty sleep.”

Jaskier can suddenly see the future again. They can find a way to break this curse. They can travel together again, just like old times. Maybe… maybe they can head to the coast. Take walks by the ocean. Geralt can fend off the drowners and the angry little crabs.

He fights the grin and decides to pretend to be irritated at Geralt’s relaxed expression and carefree smile.

“Excuse me, how about a bit of offence on my behalf?” he says, playing up the indignancy. “If you can’t be bothered with the unsatiable lust for revenge?”

“I’m going to save you.”

It stuns Jaskier into silence.

“But you need to remember first,” Geralt continues, “anything. So we know what we’re dealing with.”

Jaskier takes in the dimly lit room, the bottles scattered everywhere. The memory is close, but not tangible enough to reach for.

“Okay, I just need to think.”

He rubs at his temples.

“So, that woman, at cousin Fryderyk’s side – I recognized her. I know she was at the feast. If she was there, why isn’t she asleep like the others? Wait, wait – I think she left early. What if she came back again, saw what happened and ran off to Fryderyk to tell him it’s a free-for-all at the Lettenhove castle? If word spread from there, that could explain why they were on their way so quickly.”

Jaskier starts pacing now as he thinks about it further.

“And the baby – I’m sure she came up in conversation. She got a huge celebration a few weeks ago, just after she was born. Even I was invited, even though I’m not closely related.”

Suddenly it hits him – the missing piece.

The woman.

It all unfolds in front of his inner eye.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says quickly, wanting to hold onto something to steady himself, but knowing very well that he can’t, “I remember.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so it's still not the last chapter but I'm 99% sure the next one will be! I've almost finished writing it and I'll upload it in a few days.
> 
> Sorry about the angst!
> 
> Thank you to everyone who left kudos or a comment ♥


	5. Chapter 5

Jaskier was outrageously drunk. Although, to his tastes, that wasn’t drunk enough by far. Because he was still forming relatively coherent thoughts and could still hold his balance on one foot (he had tested it) and most importantly, because Geralt of cursed Rivia’s face was still on the forefront of his mind, like an annoying blinking light. _Look at me! I’m important!_ _The world revolves around me!_ It was unbearable.

Still, Jaskier was sober enough to single-mindedly make his way, with purpose, grace and dignity even, to the more enticing alcohol selection. He was walking, very gracefully, mind you, in a wavy and unpredictable line and, just as gracefully, stumbled over the tail of a long black cloak. The owner of said cloak joined Jaskier in a pile of misery, since the owner was trying to walk in a different direction at the same time.

For a moment, Jaskier just laid there, his legs entangled with the fabric of the cloak. The polite thing to do would be to apologize and help the other person get up. The convenient thing to do would be to just lay there and be miserable.

When had being polite ever gotten Jaskier anywhere?

Ha. The one thing he had never tried on Geralt. Therein lie all his mistakes, for sure.

After a moment, Jaskier threw a surreptitious glance to his right. The cloaked person was also not getting up. Maybe they had hit their head and died. That would put Jaskier in a really bad light. One that made Jaskier’s pores look really large and accentuate the dark circles under his eyes.

Jaskier sighed deeply. He didn’t particularly want another murder on his consciousness either.

“So,” he drawled, “shall we get up?”

“I would prefer not to,” the muffled voice came from underneath the hood of the cloak.

A like-minded person. Jaskier’s head was swimming. He closed his eyes.

“Good point,” Jaskier said, “but have you considered, there’s no alcohol on the floor?”

“I’m pretty sure there’s a puddle of it right next to my head.”

“I think I might have a better offer. Truly high-quality, watered-down rum. Not even the slightest bottom-of-the-shoe aftertaste. A whole, hmm, ninety percent chance that nobody spit in it.”

“Alright, alright,” the person said, “you’ve seduced me.”

“Wohoo!”

Jaskier stood up from the ground and held out a hand to the cloaked figure. He couldn’t see their face under the dark hood, but the haziness in his mind told him that this person could absolutely be trusted. He took their dainty, black-nailed hand and pulled them up. He led them to the secluded room where the better alcohol was stored.

He plopped down on the chair in the middle of the long table and the cloaked figure hesitantly seated themselves next to him. The black cloak covered their whole body and was especially wide around the arms. Jaskier slid a drink over to them after filling a glass of his own.

“So, my dear,” Jaskier started, “tell me what’s wrong?”

The figure – probably woman, judging by the voice and the delicate hands, but Jaskier can’t trust his senses completely at the moment – swirled their glass around.

“Oh, there was this party,” the person said. “And I didn’t get invited.”

Jaskier nodded understandingly.

“That’s terrible,” he said, “whyever not? You seem like such a lovely person.”

The lovely person shrugged.

“They just gave me some excuse about not having enough cutlery.”

“That’s outrageous,” Jaskier exclaimed immediately. “You could have brought your own. Or they could have bought new ones.”

“It wouldn’t have matched their set,” the person said despondently, “they are _very_ particular about that.”

“That just means they were undeserving of your company.”

The person slammed their glass down.

“But everyone else got invited. Even Aunt Barbara, and really _nobody_ likes her and her husband, even though he was seen in a compromising position with the painting of my great-great-great-grandfather on my mother’s side the other day.”

Jaskier’s eyebrows went up, but he decided not to comment.

“This was all for a new-born, by the way, such a tiny child. And I’m telling you – if she could speak or make decisions or, I don’t know, be aware of what’s going on around her, I bet she would have invited me.”

Jaskier nodded frantically.

“That’s right.”

“And what’s more – I’m great with children. I would make a fabulous godmother. I would, I would sing them lullabies, and feed them grilled crickets and teach them cute little spells like how to turn annoying boys into frogs or horrifying beasts. It would be a laugh.”

God _mother_ – she is a woman, then.

“It’s their loss, really.”

“Thank you for saying that,” she said and took a large gulp of her drink. “So, what about you?”

Jaskier sighed again, clasping his fingers around the glass in his hands.

“Imagine the worst person in the world,” he began and paused.

He looked over at the woman, trying to determine if she was really imagining it, but it was hard to tell under her hood.

“Now imagine the worst-smelling person in the world.”

All rogue and oniony, musky even, and sort of brave and charming -

“Now imagine you loved him and he broke your heart,” Jaskier started sobbing.

Suddenly, he felt it pouring out of him like an unstoppable waterfall. It began, the way all good stories do, in a tavern in Posada. Kidnappings, monsters, the start of a beautiful friendship. And then… the Child Surprise. The djinn. Yennefer. A dragon hunt and biting words on a mountain…

And twenty years…

Twenty years believing a lie.

“And the worst part is,” Jaskier said, staring at the bottom of his drink, “he might be right. What good has my companionship ever brought him? When have I ever done anything but… hurt him…”

“You stop that,” the woman said, sounding almost angry, “it’s _not_ your fault. Stop wallowing. You deserve to be appreciated. You don’t even need him. If anyone should feel guilty, it’s him.”

“But -”

“No. No buts. We’re done crying into our drinks.”

She downed the rest of her drink, snatched Jaskier’s glass out of his hands and downed that, too.

“It’s time we took destiny into our own hands,” she said, “instead of depending on pathetic, unworthy people, who would really, really deserve to have their skulls crushed or in the very least, be taught a lesson…”

“Wow,” Jaskier said, feeling oddly enlightened. “You are _so_ right.”

“You think so?”

“Yes. _Fuck_ forgiveness. Fuck Geralt. He doesn’t deserve a single one of my tears.”

“Revenge, then.”

“Yeah, that’s a great idea.”

Jaskier grumbled into the table, viciously imagining all manner of things that should happen to Geralt… someone should spit in _his_ drink. He should cut his fingers on paper! While he was opening… a… _scathing_ complaint about his services as a witcher. Someone should sneak into his room while he was sleeping and… cut his hair! No, no. That would go too far. (It’s such beautiful hair.)

“Because he’ll never change, will he? He’ll never apologize. He’ll never see me as anything but a nuisance. And for years, I gave him everything. Even if it was nothing to him.”

“To be unloved…” the woman said, “there is nothing as painful as that.”

Jaskier nodded mutely.

“So you believe people are set in their ways… and they are always going to despise that which is different. And in the end, there is no love. Only disappointment. I see.”

A bleak outlook, but in that moment, Jaskier couldn’t help but agree. He had lost it forever, he was sure of it.

“If you’ll excuse me,” the woman said then and stood up, “the child, her name is Rose, is here at this feast. I think I have something to say to her. And everyone who attended the celebration in her honour is here tonight, too. So… I have a score to settle.”

“Oh, yes. You show them!”

Jaskier squinted at his new role model for a moment, noticing something odd about her silhouette.

“Wait a minute… Is it just me or is your hood kind of shaped like you have horns?”

“Oh, it’s just… a hairstyle.”

“Wow, you really have it all. You give great advice, you have confidence and now style too? It’s incredible.”

It almost looks like she’s smiling underneath her hood.

“Thank you. You really helped me tonight. I don’t think I could have made this decision without you.”

Decision? Jaskier is mildly confused, but not overly concerned about it. In fact, he is suddenly very, very tired. Maybe he should sleep. Here would be a good spot, right here on the table. He slowly puts his head against the wood.

“You sleep now,” he hears someone whisper in his ear.

It sounds like an excellent plan. She says something else, but it’s all muffled now. He drifts away, ever so slowly…

* * *

After Jaskier has finished telling Geralt everything he can remember, omitting certain details about matters of the heart, Geralt looks at him tight-lipped again.

“Are you telling me you talked an obviously evil witch into putting a curse all over the castle?”

“It does sound like I did, doesn’t it?” Jaskier says. “In my defence, I was very, very drunk. And mad at you.”

Geralt is looking agitated now.

“How do we break the curse? You have to remember more. It’s not enough.”

“Cut me some slack, okay? I’m apparently in an eternal sleep. With a long line of people out to kill me.”

Geralt seems to think about this for a moment.

“So your whole family got put into a magical sleep and the first thought your cousins have when they hear about it is, _let’s go finish them off.”_

“There’s a reason they weren’t invited to the feast.”

Jaskier tries to see that evening clearly, but it’s hard when the alcohol was clouding his brain… What did she say to him? That bitter woman, so sad… Just like him. Rejected. It had made her angry.

And she hadn’t believed in…

In… true love.

In the kind of love that sticks.

“I remember now,” Jaskier said quietly, realization dawning on him. “It’s true love’s kiss. And you were so happy I wasn’t dead.”

That’s what she had whispered in his ear. _When love is returned, I will know people can change. And that there is hope yet._

“What?”

It’s the one thing he knows is hopeless. He might even get Geralt to apologize to him, but love returned? It’s ludicrous and impossible, and even if she turned him into a ghost so he could have a chance to fix things, she should have made this easier on him.  
“We’re fucked,” he says.

“No. No, no, no. You’ve been with so many people, surely one of them must have been your soulmate. We have so many to pick from.”

Geralt looks at Jaskier with wide eyes, almost like he’s afraid.

“It has to be reciprocated love though.”

“Jaskier, this is not the time to be self-deprecating. Someone will have loved you back -”

“No. The problem is – I didn’t love any of them. Not really.”

He had loved them, a little, but not in the all-consuming, unbreakable way.  
“Why not?”  
“My heart was otherwise occupied.”

Geralt clenches his fingers.

“What are you talking about? If – if you love someone, just tell them, I’ll help you find them -”

“Give it up,” Jaskier snarls, “get it through your thick skull. It’s over.”

Geralt only draws his shoulders up in determination.

“I’ll find a way,” he says, always so sure of himself.

But this is the one thing he can’t give. The one thing that’s a step too far.

“You?” Jaskier almost laughs, suddenly a bitter feeling rising up deep down in his chest. “You can’t help me. You don’t even like me.”

“You know very well that’s not true.”

“Do I? You said differently on the mountain. And you still haven’t apologized for it. What else am I supposed to think but that you meant it? Just go back to your perfect, _lonely_ life and forget about me.”

Geralt presses his lips together more tightly.

“I thought you’d know. That. I’m sorry. I just. Can’t lose you. Again.”

Usually, Jaskier would have nodded and accepted the apology, despite how stocky and awkward it was. But now… now he is suddenly desperate, knowing that the apology won’t do, that it’s too late…

He knows. This is it. The confirmation he was waiting for.

He can never go back.

He’ll fade away soon enough.

And he finds himself holding on the sunlight. Holding on to the dew on grass in the morning. Holding on to it’s you, it’s you, it’s you.

Just like a leech.

“And whose fault is that,” he says, “who had to push me away at every opportunity?”

Geralt’s eyes flare up.

“We might at least have more time to figure something out if you didn’t make everyone in a five meter distance get a desperate urge to kill you -”

“Someone tried to kill _you_ literally last night! You don’t get to lord this over me.”

Geralt takes a deep breath, visibly trying to calm himself.

“Just be reasonable, alright? There’s still time. We have to try every option.”

“There _are_ no more options. The end of the road is right here. You thought you could save me because of your terrible incurable hero complex, but you were wrong. You don’t get to play the hero this time. I’m _sorry_.” Jaskier spits the last word. “You should leave before my cousins arrive and kill you, too.”

“I’m not leaving.”

And suddenly that’s becoming real, too – if Geralt stays, he’ll surely die. But he’s standing there, as stoic and unmovable as ever.

“You stubborn idiot! Just this once, let _me_ save you. You are free from your guilt. I forgive you. No hard feelings. Now go.”

Geralt firmly shakes his head.

“I should have been here to protect you.”  
“Ah, so that’s what this is about. But the truth is, you don’t owe me anything. I’m _sick_ of your persistent need to do the right thing, the good thing. Sometimes it’s just not worth it.”

For twenty years, Jaskier mistook Geralt’s sense of obligation for something much different. But he knows better now.

“It is,” Geralt says. “Of course it is. What makes you so sure nothing can break your curse?”

Because he’s not worth the hustle. Because he’s not worth the sacrifice.

(Because there are thorns growing from his skin and anyone who even touches him gets hurt.)

“Because maybe she was right!” Jaskier didn’t mean to say it, but now that he has, it seems like the only thing that make sense. “She _was_ right, you know? There is no true love. There is only lies and broken promises.”

“That doesn’t sound like your songs.”

Jaskier never should have let himself hope. Not when Geralt was so adamant on saving him. Not twenty years ago, when Jaskier thought he could find a home.

“The truth doesn’t make for great entertainment,” Jaskier says slowly, “even you should know that by now.”

Countless complaints about Jaskier’s slight embellishments in his songs and Geralt still doesn’t get it. That Jaskier is a performer, so he performs. And yes, Jaskier might have believed his own lyrics, singing of love in the past, but now he knows it’s only a myth.

“Why can’t you just understand?” Geralt says. His face is starting to turn red. “If you ever listened to me -”

Soon, they are talking over each other.

“If _you_ didn’t run every time someone -”

Jaskier’s voice is rising higher and higher – and so is Geralt’s.

“It would have all been fine if you didn’t get so offended when -”

“Maybe if you weren’t so damn offensive -”

“And _then_ you went and got yourself killed!”

Jaskier huffs contemptuously.

“Ah, right, this is starting to sound familiar. Everything is my fault. Of course. You want a repeat of what you said to me on the mountain?” Jaskier throws his hands up in exasperation. “Fine. Here you have it. You said, ‘you’re dead to me, Jaskier’. So I was just following instructions.”

“I said no such thing.”  
“You might as well have! No space in your life for poor old Jaskier. And I didn’t want to be near you, I didn’t plan for any of this.”

Geralt stares at him rigidly, his arms tense at his side.

“Then why won’t you stop haunting me?”

Jaskier steps back, like he’s taken a physical hit.

Because that’s the point, isn’t it?

He’s only ever a bother. A burden. And Geralt was tolerating him for years. It’s not really his fault at all. He was the one who had bravely endured it.

And of course it isn’t love.

It’s a shell. Armour that is impenetrable. Geralt is never going to let him in.

He’d hoped they could have a better good-bye. A nicer one. Like old friends. (And maybe it’s not good-bye. Maybe Geralt will join him soon. But Jaskier is not even going to consider that.)

He glances down at his hands and is suddenly repulsed by them, like they could turn violent in a second, smell of blood. He looks at the callouses from playing the lute, the skin turned dry in winter, the long fingers, and hates them ferociously.

“Fine,” he says.

All the anger has left him. It was never really anger at all, just a ball of frustration and sadness.

He watches Geralt for a moment, his battered skin, his messy hair, and finds he still wants. To dress Geralt’s wounds. To find the gentleness he knows Geralt is hiding. He wants to share his life, not separate in winter. He wants a house by the sea. And he has dismissed Geralt every time he insisted they weren’t friends. In the end, it was all fantasy. The house by the sea all too easily washed away.

Geralt does care for him, in some way, sure. But this fierce hunger, this desperate storm, it’s only Jaskier. The part of him he knows is too much for anyone to withstand.

So he’ll go. And die alone somewhere.

(It’s just like sleeping, isn’t it?)

(To stop going through the motions. The ever same routine. Of sleeping and not sleeping. And drinking and hurting.)

(An ending. Yes. Finally.)

He turns his back and walks away.

(See you around, Geralt. See you never.)

He pauses in the big hall, all these people he knows or doesn’t know. He lies down among them. Lonely. But not quite alone.

* * *

It’s Geralt’s fault. They both know it.

If Geralt had been honest from the start, none of this would have happened. To let himself feel it. To be vulnerable. Not bark before you have to bite. Not bite before you get bitten.

On the mountain, he had known with sudden clarity that he would get hurt. And then he’d had foolishly set the whole thing in motion.

Hurting himself most of all.

And Jaskier. Always Jaskier. Geralt has never understood it. Why Jaskier chose him of all people. He’d expected Jaskier’s mind to clear at some point, but it never had. Where everyone else saw the necessary evil, the monster-killing monster, Jaskier saw… a friend. Someone to treat gently.

And all Geralt has ever done in response is wait for the illusion to pop and blow away like smoke.

He has expected the pain with such certainty that he never realized the joy of the moment. The quiet evenings. The sunny days to come back to. The warm knowledge of having someone.

Now he wants to cling to it more than anything. He wants to tell Jaskier, he wants this life. He can’t go back to the loneliness that has never felt like a void until Jaskier.

But it’s too late now. He’s lost it all. He can only fall backwards into the grave he shovelled for himself.

He only wishes he had told Jaskier, before he left. Even if Jaskier doesn’t want to hear it from him. So he knows that, even if it sounds ridiculous and unbelievable, that someone like Geralt could feel things like that – love exists and has burned a hole in Geralt’s chest for years. To know that Geralt would rather live with that hole in his chest than without it any day.

Geralt walks over to Jaskier’s sleeping body and strokes through his hair.

Even so. Even knowing he missed his chance. The years were good. And he will miss them.

Very carefully, he places an arm under Jaskier’s legs and one under his back and scoops him up.

“This is no place to sleep,” he tells Jaskier quietly.

He carries Jaskier up the stairs and opens the first door he sees. He doesn’t know whose bedroom it is, but it doesn’t matter. He places Jaskier on the mattress, pulling the blanket over his body with care.

That’s better.

Geralt runs a hand over Jaskier’s hair one more time. Like this, he can almost think Jaskier will wake up in the morning, well-rested, ready to face another day.

He can’t stop looking at Jaskier’s face, afraid that it will disappear any moment. He will stand by the door, he thinks. He won’t let anyone come in. He will let Jaskier get his rest.

Eventually, he bends down and places a soft kiss on Jaskier’s forehead. Just because he wants to. Because he wishes he had been tender to Jaskier earlier.

And then –

Jaskier’s eyes open.

And they look _so_ alive.

Geralt stares at him, frozen in spot.

“What is happening,” Jaskier says.

Geralt stares.

“Where am I?” Jaskier keeps talking. “Did you just summon me? You do know that just because I’m a ghost, I won’t be summoned at the whims of a fool-headed witcher. I’m mad at you, why won’t you just let me storm off in peace -”

Jaskier cuts himself off abruptly.

He sits up.

Geralt stares.

“Wait a minute,” Jaskier says.

He stretches out his hands, just looking at them for a moment. Then, he clasps them together.

“I’m real,” he says. “I’m a real person. The curse is broken. You did it! Geralt!”

A wide grin spreads across his face, so strangely carefree. The next moment, he is jumping out of the bed and storming out of the room.

Geralt stares at the empty bed.

* * *

Jaskier needs to see it for himself, that everything is back to normal, that everyone is awake and alive. That it doesn’t have to end like this. He can feel it already. His whole body feels more grounded, more solid than it has ever since he woke up as a half-person. He feels like he has all the energy in the world.

People are starting to sit up in the great hall, some of them rubbing their heads – like they are waking up from a bad dream. It’s true, then. The curse is broken.

Jaskier has another chance. He won’t butcher it this time. He will look at the world. He will breathe deeply. He will get close.

“Jaskier!”

Jaskier turns to where the voice is coming from – it’s his cousin and friend from childhood Irena.

“There you are,” she says and smiles at him brightly. “I thought something might have happened to you.”

“I think something happened to everyone,” Jaskier says mildly and gestures around the room.

“Yes, but not everyone went off with a dangerous witch holding a grudge against pretty much everyone in the building.”

“You knew her?”

“Of course! How did you not recognize her? It was a huge debacle when she turned up. Some were embarrassed, some were mad, obviously nobody stupid enough to say anything to her, but everyone was talking about it!”

“That’s what I get for being away for so long. I’m not getting any of the gossip.”

Jaskier shrugs.

“But in my defence, gossip is usually not a matter of life or death.”

Irena inches closer and lowers her voice.

“Have you _seen_ Cornelia’s boots?”

Jaskier lets out a shaky laugh. Relief floods through him. Everything is fine again. Irena is making jokes. He can see the two brothers he noticed earlier squabbling again.

The curse is broken.

Jaskier tenses – the curse is _broken_. There was only one way to break the curse.

Did… did Geralt _kiss_ him?

Jaskier turns on his heel.

* * *

Jaskier marches back into the room. Geralt is still standing there, looking at the bed.

“You!” Jaskier says.

Geralt turns to him, an eerily stunned expression on his face. Instantly, Jaskier forgets everything he wanted to say.

“I’m going to slap you now,” Jaskier says, because it’s the only thing coming to his mind, “I’m warning you.”

Geralt smiles.

“So hard,” Jaskier says. “It’s going to hurt.”

“I bet it is.”

“I’ve been thinking about it all this time, when I wasn’t able to touch and now I can finally…”

He keeps staring at Geralt and steps a little closer.

“Don’t think I won’t.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Geralt says.

“I’m doing it,” Jaskier promises.

Geralt starts to speak, but Jaskier has had enough. He surges forward, buries one hand in Geralt’s shirt and – kisses him. So forcefully that Geralt stumbles backwards, but he catches himself and impossibly, kisses back, much more softly. They break apart after a short moment, but Jaskier puts his hands on Geralt’s shoulders.

“You love me,” Jaskier accuses.

Geralt hms. Affirmatively.

_Love returned_.

“Geralt, you can’t want this,” Jaskier says in a small voice, but he doesn’t step back, can’t put any distance between them.

“Me?” Geralt’s lips curl. “You’re the one who’s out of his mind to even consider this.”

Jaskier looks down at the hands clutching Geralt’s shirt, solid and not falling through his chest. Tangible now. And Geralt stays whole underneath him.

Two people hurting – people.

Jaskier presses down, because he has to, but Geralt doesn’t shrink from him. Perhaps only the untouchable can reach for the untouchable.

On Geralt’s lips, Jaskier finds forceless softness. He couldn’t find it on the rim of a glass, he couldn’t find it in each spitting, fuming sound of his songs. But here it is. Something whole fitting to something whole. Jaskier lets his breath ghost over Geralt’s lips and decides to be a gust of wind, not because he is afraid of breaking, but because he is too reverent of how real it is.

And even when Jaskier digs his fingers deeply into Geralt’s skin, Geralt doesn’t turn into thin air.

Geralt’s hands come up at his sides, gently press into his ribs. But Jaskier wants more – he wants indents in his skin, the imprint of being held onto. The warm proof – someone touched him and lived through it. Geralt’s hands fit into the curve of his hip, one wanders upwards and fits into the crook of his neck. Jaskier wants the fingerprints.

Let’s try for each other. Let’s be kind to each other.

There is nothing rough in the way their lips touch. Still, Jaskier has been asleep for over a day and now his lips are chapped. A small bit of skin has peeled off and Geralt’s lips catch on it. Geralt startles and breaks away, only a small distance.

“Sorry,” Jaskier whispers, “did I hurt you?”

“No.”

Immediately, Geralt is back on him, kissing him the way you would someone who belongs in this world. Jaskier wants to feel Geralt’s nails graze his skin, he wants his grip to tighten. He wants to feel it.

And Geralt doesn’t – he keeps each of his touches tender, but Jaskier can feel it anyway. The world slips back into place. There is hard ground beneath his feet. He will keep Geralt right here, close, close, close.

They were touchable all along, he thinks, they were just afraid of it.

He remembers how to do this, how to sink into someone’s hands, how to have fingers to touch and real skin – he remembers how to have a real heart.

“I’m going to love you so much,” he says, “it’s going to hurt.”  
“Please,” Geralt answers.

Jaskier had not been aware of the empty space his heart had left, but now it’s a weight in his chest, one he doesn’t mind carrying around. He doesn’t mind it at all.

He can feel it beat hard in his chest – knock, knock. I wanted to tell you. You’re alive.

And Jaskier – even without the hope, even numb to the touch - hasn’t forgotten.

He knows that he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know that scene at the end of 'The Haunting of Bly Manor' with the song? Please tell me honestly you won't give up on me and I shall believe?  
> Yes. That.
> 
> Please consider also "It's rotten work" - "Not to me. Not if it's you."
> 
> And! The hozier song. "Like Real People Do". Damn.
> 
> So, in case you were wondering, yes, the witch has read Bartleby the Scrivener and makes references to it at any opportunity. (literature majors will know what I'm talking about)  
> Is the witch a recurring character from my beauty and the beast fanfiction, which plays in a parallel universe? Is she secretly the patron saint of getting Jaskier and Geralt together? Maybe so.
> 
> I'm a little unsure about how this turned out as a last chapter, since everything built up to this point. I hope it was satisfying.
> 
> Let me know what you think! I had a lot of fun/ahhh-why-does-it-hurt-so-much while writing this!
> 
> That Cinderella fanfiction is still in the works btw, I haven't given up on it yet.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who encouraged me to keep writing with your lovely comments :) And since it's New Year's Eve (where I am, at least), I'm gonna say happy new year! Preemptively.

**Author's Note:**

> Me @the Jaskier snarking at Geralt in my head at 5am while I'm trying to sleep: pLeAsE SToP  
> Jaskier, for the seventh time: aND ONE MORE THING-
> 
> Yes, I said I was going to do Cinderella after my beauty and the beast fic and yes this was months ago but! You don't choose the fic it chooses you.
> 
> So I hope you liked this! I appreciate any comment or kudos :) Feel free to come talk to me on [tumblr](https://dancedelion.tumblr.com/)!


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